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Volume 3 November, 1954 Number 3 



NOVELETS 

MOON DANCE Wallace West 10 

Earth had a problem with radioactive wastes, and the moon seemed to be the 
ideal dumping ground. But the Lunar colonists objected . . . 

DESPERATE REMEDY Mack Reynolds 62 

The disease might strike at any moment, and when it did, madness would 
sweep the ship. But a little touch of murder might prevent it! 

SHORT STORIES 

CHANGE OF COLOR . . . . : D. A. Jourdam 31 

Even a non-violent society can be swept by moral revolution . . . 

VOTING MACHINE Jim Harmon 44 

Mow suppose a voting machine could pass on the voters’ eligibility. 



ARTICLE 

THE ELDER PROFESSION L. Sprague de Camp 51 

What relation did oldtime magic have to the slow rise of science? 

»* 

READERS’ DEPARTMENTS 

IT SAYS HERE 6 

LETTERS 90 



ROBERT W. LOWNDES, Editor 



Cover by Frank Kelly Freas 

illustrations by Emsh, Freas, Orban, and Luton 




SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY. November, 1954, published February, May, August, and November, 
by COLUMBIA PUBLICATIONS, INC., 1 Appleton Street, Holyoke, Mass. Editorial and executive of- 
fices at 241 Church Street, New York 13, New York. Entered as second class matter at the Post Office 
at Holyoke, Mass., under the Act of J March 3, 1879. Single copy 25£; yearly subscription $1.00. Entire 
contents copyright 1954 by COLUMBIA PUBLICATIONS. INC. Manuscripts must be accompanied by 
self-addressed envelopes to insure return if not accepted, and while reasonable care will be extended in 
handling them, it is understood that they are submitted at author's risk. Printed in U. S. A. 



4 








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CL& 9 iOaA Sayinq. 



UC? O-AND-SO is a good editor, 
but why doesn’t he print good 
stories?” I’ve seen this state- 
ment innumerable times in fan maga- 
zines and personal correspondence — ei- 
ther as you read it above, or in some 
variation which comes out to the same 
general idea. And I don’t doubt that F 
said it or wrote it often enough my- 
self, back in my BGS period (before 
General Semantics) when it had never 
occurred to me that there might be as 
many different meanings for “good 
stories” as there were people using the 
phrase. Nor had I realized that some 
of these meanings might be mutually 
exclusive. Why, a good story was — 
well, it was good! Any intelligent per- 
son who read it could see that it was 
good! And so on. 

The question is far from 1 passe, and 
it was the subject of a talk I gave be- 
fore a meeting of the New York Sci- 
ence Fiction Circle some months ago. 
w* started off with the awareness that 



the phrase “good story” did not mean 
exactly the same thing to each and 
every one of us. We agreed, for the 
sake of discussion, to ignore these dif- 
ferences for the time being. What, then, 
were some of the factors operating 
against an editor’s using “good” sto- 
ries?' 

We broke the road-blocks down into 
three main categories: the publisher; 
the editor himself; the writers. 

First of all, I noted that a particular 
publisher might be trying to sell his 
magazines to an audience with quite 
different tastes than ours. In that case, 
he might lay down a policy for the 
magazines which, to our way of think- 
ing, allowed for “good” stories only 
by accident. Obviously, an editor who 
operates under such a policy cannot be 
blamed for not doing what he is not 
supposed to do in the first place. In 
fact, if he is catering to an audience 
which is not interested in what we con- 
[Turn To Page 8] 



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8 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



sider “good” stories, then the fewer 
“good” stories he publishes, the bet- 
ter. (At this point, we have to duck 
under our agreement for a moment, 
and realize that a magazine which any 
particular one of us — or even all who 
read these words — considers very bad, 
because it uses few or no “good” sto- 
ries, may actually be filling a very def- 
inite need. On its own level, it may be 
an excellent magazine.) 

However, for the purposes of our 
discussion, we had to assume that any 
publisher who laid down a rigid policy, 
restricting the editor far more than his 
own taste and judgement would other- 
wise restrict him, was inhibiting the 
publication of “good” stories. The edi- 
tor in question had to return many 
“good” stories, simply because they did 
not fit into the policy he was hired to 
execute. 

Then, of course, there was the mat- 
ter of budgets. An editor who is free 
to equal or better the highest rates 
his competitors can offer is obviously 
going to see more potential “good” sto- 
ries, or see them earlier, than his more 
conservatively-budgeted colleagues. 

(I say “potential good stories”, be- 
cause of course no story is good or 
'otherwise until the editor has read it.) 

I said this above with a smile, and 
paused for laughter. But there’s 'more 
than mere editorial delusions of divini- 
ty in that remark. A story exists as an 
event on the level of human communi- 
cations. Unlike other types of events, 
which happen and can be shown to 
have happened whether, anyone sees 
them or not, various human beings 
have to agree before a given sheaf of 
paper with words impressed upon it in 
such a manner as to be legible, can be 
labelled, “good story”. 

But this is about as far as the buck 
can be passed to the publisher. What 
about editors who are not restricted by 
company-made story-policies, and who 
can compete with the rest of the field 
on rates? There are some well-known 
editors, handling respected magazines. 



who come under that heading; yet, 
these gentlemen have never made any 
secret of the fact that they do not find 
it easy to get “good stories”. 

So, let’s turn the eyeglass on the 
editor — not any particular editor — and 
see if we can determine how and where 
he might get in his own way. He too 
knows what a “good” story is, and he 
agrees with our definitions. We cannot 
explain anything by alleging he has 
poor taste, or is subject to spells of 
imbecility, etc., because that won’t ex- 
plain what we really want to find out. 
That type of explanation explains 
so much that it explains nothing. 

CIRST THERE is the matter of the 
. editor’s personal biases. 

Now as I have stated before, bias 
does not mean prejudice. Prejudice 
means making a judgement before 
you’ve seen the evidence. I’ve been 
accused of being prejudiced against 
Ray Bradbury’s stories, for example. 
If this were true, then I’d say that 
“Fahrenheit 451” was a bad book, 
simply because it was by Bradbury, 
although I haven’t read the story. 

Bias, on the other hand, means a 
predilection toward or against some- 
thing. I’m biased against Bradbury 
simply because such a large percentage 
of those stories of his I have read did 
not satisfy me that these stories were 
worthy of the adulation they received. 
This bias has made me reluctant to 
try reading this highly-praised novel, 
“Fahrenheit 451”, so far; when I do 
read the book, the bias will make me 
demand more of it, before I can like it, 
than I might demand of some > author 
of whose works I was biased in favor, 
and whose latest story I couldn’t wait 
to read. 

We all have biases of some kind or 
other, and many biases are shared 
among large groups. A fan club usual- 
ly springs out of a group of people’s 
bias in favor of science fiction. Some- 
times we can be aware of our biases, 
[Turn To Page 81] 




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10 




Radioactive garbage would soon make the moon uninhabit- 
able; the colonists were under no compulsion to leave, 
of course. In fact, they could block the decision to make 
the moon a dump, too, if they wanted; on the other hand, ' 
Earth was under no obligation to give them credit at 
any time . , . 

MOON 

DANCE 

Novelet of the Day After Tomorrow 

by Wallace West 

illustrated by Kelley Freas 



I N TIME with a waltz tune drifting from the cafe’s loudspeaker, Robin 
Singleton drew two large crosses on the bar with the wet bottom of her syn- 
tini glass. “So it’s final, Tom? They’re really turning the Moon into a 
dump?” 

“Yes,” answered the bartender as he waited, towel in hand, to wipe up the 
mess she was making. “Lou just showed me the official order.” 

“It’s like rubbing the bloom off a peach,” the girl sighed. 

“Or pulling wings off a butterfly,” old Tom nodded glumly. 

“When I was a kid I used to dance in our garden on moonlit nights,” she 
almost whispered. “Took my clothes off and rolled in the dew, sometimes— 
just because everything was so damned lovely. In those days I was going to 



11 



12 SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



grow up to be another Isadora Duncan, 
you see.” 

“How come, then, that you became 
a physicist? I've always wondered.” 

“That was the Moon’s fault, too, 
plus the fact that I was good at math 
in college. I wanted to help develop an 
atomic drive. . . Make it easy for 
folks to get up here.” 

“You did help, too,” old Tom re- 
called. “Your positronic. . .” 

“Maybe,” she cut him off with a 
shrug of her slim shoulders. “But as 
soon as Earth began using fissionables 
in gobs I had to get out of the lab. Con- 
tracted The Allergy; broke out in hives 
as big as silver dollars — and in the 
wierdest places!” She shuddered, 
drained her syntini and wrinkled her 
pert nose at its taste of crude oil. 

“Tough,” Tom agreed with the full 
sympathy that one has-been gives an- 
other. 

“I worked as a dancing teacher for 
a while after that, but the radiation- 
level kept building up everywhere and 
my hives came back. Who wants to 
dance with a partner who is all over 
spots? 

“Then I read that you Moonies were 
having trouble getting about. That gave 
me a crazy idea: if you danced instead 
of walking, you might be able to stay 
on your feet. I talked things over 'with 
the Arthur Murray Corporation and it 
agreed to back me in opening a studio; 
so here I am.” 

“You certainly helped me,” Tom 
chuckled. “When the doctors first sent 
me up here, I’d almost- get my legs 
tangled around my neck every time I 
moved.” 

“There was practically no radiation 
here in those days,” Robin went on, 
“so I got along fine. After I finished 
training the colonists the tourists kept 
me busy. Folks always want to dance 
when they go on vacation, and I 
showed them how to do it without 
bumping their silly heads on the ceil- 
ing. But now. . .” 



“Now most tourists go right on to 
Mars or Venus,” Tom nodded. 

“And I can’t blame them, what with 
whole scow-loads of hot stuff banging 
down everywhere. But the studio and 
I are both on our last legs as a result.” 

“When I was a kid,” said old Tom 
as he took off his dark glasses and 
polished them on the end of his tie, 
“the Moon was just another place to 
get to, someday. But then I became a 
rocket test pilot and took up the first 
ship to circle her ... I guess you know 
all about that, though. . .” 

“Everybody knows about that,” 
Robin smiled at him. Yes, everyone in 
the solar system knew the story of 
the man who had brought a crippled 
ship and its insane crew safely back 
to Earth; the man who had fought his 
way out of blindness and angina to go 
on the First Mars Expedition; the man 
who had done so much to settle the 
Martian War and to establish United 
Stars; the man who still refused to re- 
tire, although his leaky heart could 
keep pumping only on a low-gravity 
planet. 

“That was ’way back in ’75,” he 
dreamed, as old men will. “We hadn’t 
learned, then, what space travel could 
do to the human mechanism. We went 
up too fast and wrecked our hearts; 
we looked out of unshielded portholes 
and ruined our eyes, or addled our 
brains. But we couldn’t help looking. 
The Moon was so damned lovely, as 
you said.” 

“So now they’re going to trade her 
in on a stinking little space platform 
and turn her into one great, empty, 
isotopic itch!” The girl’s warm brown 
eyes filled with tears. “I can’t take 
it, Tom. Give me another drink and 
mix one for yourself; put real gin in 
them, too. We’ll drink a proper toast 
to Diana before those fools at New 
Washington make a hag of her!” 

AS THE old man busied himself 
** with bottles and ice the cafe door 
burst open and a miniature cyclone 



MOON DANCE 



13 



danced in. “Hey, Pop,” it yelled. 
“There’s a cat from the mine outside. 
The driver says I can ride out with 
him an’ come back with Bill at Oh 
Sixteen. Can I go. Pop? Can I, huh?” 
“Looks as if you were halfway there 
already, Sadie.” Tom grinned at his 
14-year-old daughter’s wild enthu- 
siasm. “How about your lessons, 
though?” 

“Yah! Lessons!” She saw her fa- 
ther’s jaw tighten and added hastily: 
“I’ll study ’em drivin’ out, and Bill 
will help me with ’em cornin’ back.” 
“Fair enough*” 

The cyclone departed, whooping. 
“Sadie’s getting out of hand, I’m 
afraid.” Tom mopped his balding head 
with the bar towel. “She’s not happy 
these days unless she’s prowling 
around atomic machinery, or hobnob- 
bing with a new consignment of In- 
cors. She’d be a lot different if Jeanne 
. . .if her mother had lived. Can’t you 
tone her down a bit, Robin?” 

“I’ve tried often enough. Know what 
she always says?” 

“She says: ‘Yah! Dancing teach- 
ers!’ ” Tom laughed ruefully. 

“Bill Filgus is the only person who 
can handle your tomboy; she worships 
him because he’s an engineer, and she’s 
determined to become one. When she 
got 'too tough, once, I saw him spank 
her until her little bottom must have 
blistered. And she took it! Even apolo- 
gized to him through her sniffles. She’d 
have cracked my helmet the next time 
I went topside if I had tried anything 
like that.” 

*1 suppose so. But keep her out of 
Lou’s way as much as you can; she’s 
growing up fast and I don’t like the 
way that son looks at her... Well, 
here’s our toast to the Moon.” 

They touched glasses. The drinks 
tasted flat despite the gin. 

“I don’t like the way Lou looks at 
Sadie, or at me, or at things in gener- 
al,” Robin snapped. “I don’t like the 
way he plays games with Mayor 
Wheaton and the mine owners; I don’t 



like the way he has blocked all of 
your efforts to make Moon Base a 
civilized place instead of an imitation 
Wild West outpost; I don’t like any- 
thing about him. Which reminds 
me...” She slipped off the stool, 
smoothed the pleats in her shorts and 
buttoned the V of her white blouse. 
“I have to give the wretch a lesson in 
five minutes.” 

“Why?” Tom leaned pudgy elbows 
on the bar and unashamedly admired 
her flat hips and long — a trifle too 
muscular, but thoroughly satisfying — 
dancer’s legs. 

“With tourists staying away in 
droves since most sightseeing trips have 
been cancelled, about the only thing 
that keeps me eating is that that big 
lummox likes to paw me, has plenty 
of time to kill with his hotel half-emp- 
ty, and won’t admit he’ll never learn 
to dance in this world or any other. 

“Bye now, Tom. Ask Bill to drop 
in as soon as he gets here.” She kissed 
fingertips at him and departed in per- 
fect time with a tango that was drift- 
ing softly from the ’speaker. 

There was something faintly “out 
of drawing” about each detail of her 
physique, Tom reflected as his eyes 
caressed her retreating back, but the 
end product was sheer moonlight and 
roses. Back in ’7S, now! He sighed and 
got busy polishing glasses for the rush 
that would start as soon as the ship 
from Earth got in. 

FOXTROT was 
playing on the studio 
jukebox as she ap- 
proached. R o b i n’s 
heart leaped; per- 
haps Marie had in- 
veigled the hotel 
owner into dancing 
with her this once. 
But no such luck — 
Robin’s one remain- 
ing assistant was in the brawny arms 




14 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 




of Harry Feldman. Harry was a mine 
superintendent who took pride in hav- 
ing a Silver Medal diploma fiom the 
Arthur Murray Corporation; he 
dropped in for a brush-up lesson when- 
ever he was at Base. 

Lou was there, too. Thick legs apart 
and thick head thrown back, he was 
standing before a faded astronomical 
mural that adorned one of the studio 
.walls. For the fiftieth time he was lec- 
turing his weasel-faced cashier and 
bodyguard, Mike, on the wonders of 
the solar system. 

“That there planet ’way up in the 
corner is Pluto,” the big man was ex- 
plaining to the little one, as to a child. 
“ ’Stars has a big expedition out there. 
It’s tryin’ to slow down Pluto in its 
orbit.” 

“Orbit?” puzzled his stooge. 

“An orbit’s the path a planet takes 
’round the sun.” 

“What they doin’ that for, boss?” 

“So Pluto’ll drop in closer to the 
sun and warm up, dope. Then Presi- 
dent Brown thinks ’Stars can plant a 

colony on it. Earth’s crawlin’ ” 

Characteristically, Lou left the sen- 
tence unfinished. 

“Yeah?” Mike contemplated over- 
populated, raw materials-hungry Earth 
with glee. “Then why don’t ’Stars send 
more people to Venus. . .out to Wild- 
oatia?” 

“ ’Cause the Incors won’t accept 
only certain kinds of immigrants, see?” 

“Tell me again that long word that 
means Incor, boss. Incorig. . .some- 
thin’.” 

“Incorrigible, stupid. They got that 
name ’cause they’re anti-social; don’t 
like to take orders from nobody. When 



a lot of Incor bigshots got caught dead 
to rights down on Earth for stirrin’ up 
the war with Mars, back in ’95, they 
made a deal with ’Stars, see? They 
said they wouldn’t raise no more hell 
for a while if they was shipped out to 
Venus, an’ let alone to do just as they 
damn’ well pleased.” 

“Gee!” Mike’s mouth hung open as 
he drank in every word. 

“Well, ’Stars was on a spot. It had 
just been organized and it was pretty 
shaky — to say nothin’ about Earth 
havin’ used up most of its coal an’ oil 
and uranium an’ other fuels. ’Stars 
knew there was a lot o’ free U-235 on 
Venus, and the Incors said they’d find 
it. So th’ first bunch of ’em went to 
Venus. But they didn’t join ’Stars; 
no, sir! They set up the Free State of 
Wildoatia, and since then they only let 
in folks who want to sow wild oats.” 
“Show me where Wildoatia is again, 
boss, on that there pitcher.” 

“Excuse me.” Robin had had enough 
of this moronic gabble. “Time for your 
lesson.” 

Mike leered at her and slouched 
away. Tilting a chair against the wall, 
he slumped into it and dragged a ster- 
eocomic out of his pocket. 

'"T’HE TOUGH-GUY mask that Lou 
A always assumed when talking to 
his henchman whipped away. It was 
replaced by that of a debonair man 
of the world — a man who played host 
to politicos, scientists, tri-di stars, and 
tiara-crowned dowagers in what once 
had been the system’s most luxurious 
resort hotel. 

“Ah!” he beamed. “Miss Singleton. 
What a pleasure.” 

“Did you practice that rhumba box 
step?” She was all business. 

“I did.” Fie rubbed a bump on his 
forehead. “But I still couldn’t keep 
my feet on the floor.” 

“That’s because you don’t flex your 
knees; you bounce stifflegged, like a 
wooden monkey on a stick.” She gavs 
him a professional frown. 



MOON DANCE 



IS 



"I know.” He played abject. “It’s a 
continual source of embarrassment. I'm 
supposed to be ye compleat hotel man, 
yet on my own dance floor I look 
like...” 

“Most of your guests don’t look 
much better.” She had to chuckle at 
thought of the sights she had seen on 
evenings after unwary crowds of vaca- 
tioners arrived at Moon Base. “Low- 
G does queer tricks. Rule number one 
is never to get up on your toes: you’re 
likely to start flying. Glide instead . . . 
like this.” 

She demonstrated, while Lou won- 
dered whether she could possibly look 
more attractive with her clothes off.. 

“You’re not paying attention,” she 
flushed. “Watch my feet. Here. Let’s 
try it.” He reached for her but she 
held him at arm’s length. “Now! For- 
ward, brush. . . No. No! Always step 
forward with your left foot! Again. . . 
Forward, brush, side, together. Back- 
ward, brush, side, together. 

“That’s better,” she lied after a few 
tries. “With the music, now. I know 
you’re tone-deaf, so just listen to the 
beat of the drums underneath the mel- 
ody. One, two, three and four. Dum, 
dum, dum-te-dum.” She slipped into 
his arms and, by main strength, kept 
his feet on the floor for five exhaust- 
ing minutes. 

“It’s no good,” he puffed at last. 
“Maybe we should try a waltz, or. . . ?” 

“No waltz! I’d feel like a murderer. 
Guess I’ll have to invent a dance where 
only your arms and, uh, hands move. 
I’ll call it Lou Ruppen’s Ripple.” 

“Something like a Hindu ritual 
dance,” he surprised her by saying as 
they resumed a teetering course. “It 
might make a hit with the tourists. But 
I couldn’t chance it; didn’t the temple 
guards kill any dancer who got out 
of time?” 

“They sometimes compromised by 
cutting off the offender’s toes,” Robin 
grimaced. “I may have to resort to 
that if you step on mine again.” 

Lou apologized fulsomely but she 



hardly heard him. She had begun to 
wonder whether he was playing with 
her. . .whether he really couldn’t dance 
better than she could. It required posi- 
tive genius to mangle Terpsichore so 
consistently. 

He switched subjects. “What are 
you going to do when?” 

“Can’t Moon Base appeal that evac- 
uation order?” 

“Won’t do a bit of good; Mother 
’Stars knows best.” 

“I’ll manage, then.” Robin’s chin 
came up. “How about you?” 

“I have another hotel in me. It will 
make this dump look like. . .think I’ll 
call’ it ‘The Nirvana.’ ” 

“You’re lucky to have money .to 
start over.” 

“New Washington will pay me 
through the nose for this one — right 
of eminent domain and all. They’ll pay 
you for the studio, too, and buy you 
a ticket home.” 

“Not home. . . Hives!” The corners 
of her wide mouth turned down. 
“Brrr!” 

“How about Mars?” 

“Martians know how to dance when 
they’re born, confound them.” 

“Pluto? You could brush up your 
nucleonics.” 

“I checked on that before I came up 
here. The Expedition is shoving bull- 
dozer beams at every projection on 
the planet; radiation level is soaring. 
No Allergies need apply.” 

“Hmmm. They wouldn’t use you on 
the new space platform for the same.” 
“That’s right. Maybe I’ll start a 
quiet little filling station on some as- 
teroid,” she smiled forlornly. “When 
ships stop in for fuel I can sell hot- 
dogs and antiques to the passengers.” 

ILJE REGARDED her seriously and 
A forgot to keep out of step. “That 
isn’t as crazy as it sounds. If we’d 
stop splashing the last of our fission- 
ables around on Pluto, and get at the 
job of colonizing the moons of the out- 
er planets, fuel dumps would have to 



16 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



be set up along the way. But it’s too 
soon for that.” Lou glanced at Marie 
and her partner, saw them in animated 
conversation, and whispered: “Ever 

thought of turning Incor?” 

“It may be the only solution.” 

“You’ll need a protector in Wild- 
oatia.” 

“Isn’t everyone supposed to be on 
his own out there? No wives, friends 
or partners?” 

“A Wildoatian bigshot is entitled to 
have a. , 

“Harem?” she sniffed, and glanced 
at a wall clock. “Sorry. Your time is 
up.” 

“May I have another lesson right 
now?” 

“I’m engaged for the rest of the eve- 
ning.” As he started to protest she add- 
ed demurely, “You have been dancing 
very well these last few minutes; in 
fact, you used several steps that I nev- 
er taught you.” 

“Did I?” His mask slipped back in 
place. “That is very encouraging; may 
I have another lesson tomorrow at this 
time?” 

“Certainly, Mr. Ruppen.” 

“Thank you, Miss Singleton.” He 
walked away clumsily, snapping blunt 
fingers at Mike to follow. 

“If you ever want that punk killed,” 
said Feldman as the door slammed, 
“let me know. I’ve found a blowhole 
in the pumice that he and his pal would 
just fit.” 

“I’ll let you know, Harry. Right 
now, though, .his lessons help pay the 
rent.” 

“I’ll bet hs got ’Stars to issue that 
evacuation order.” Marie patted her 
blonde hair into place viciously. “It 
gets him out of a financial jam; the 
rest of us can starve for all he cares.” 

“There’s something rotten some- 
where,” the miner agreed. 

“We’re not licked yet, maybe,” said 
Robin as she limped toward the pow- 
der room. “I’m getting another of my 
crazy ideas.” 



ILL F I L G U S lis- 
tened with only half 
an ear to Sadie’s 
chatter as the cat 
churned toward 
Moon Base. News of 
the evacuation order 
had flashed along 
the refinery grape- 
vine just before his 
shift went off duty, and the young en- 
gineer was chewing a bitter cud of 
reflections. 

He kept mopping his sweaty face 
with a wet handkerchief. The ancient 
air-conditioner was cutting up again; 
under the almost-vertical rays of the 
monstrous, flaming sun the tempera- 
ture inside the cab was well above 100 
degrees. 

From time to time he cast dubious 
glances at the patched left roller which 
slid silently past the triple side win- 
dow like a bloated, elongated inner 
tube. 

Mostly, though, he considered the 
probable fate of an ambitious, lazy, 
intuitive, forgetful, hard-drinking con- 
tradiction like himself when caught, 
once more, in the terrestial rat race. 

“ . . . an’ this Incor guy was tellin’ 
me that in Wildoatia you never see the 
sun except maybe,” Sadie rattled on. 
“He says it ain’t like here, where a 
lot of folks go off their rockets during 
the noondays. On Venus, see, there’s 
always a thick blanket of . . . Bill, 
what’s a cloud, huh?” She joggled his 
arm after a decent wait. “You ain’t 
been listenin’; I said: ‘What’s a cloud?’ 
Is it like that dust the cat is kickin’ 
up?” 

“Nothing like that, child.” Bill drew 
in his breath as nostalgia hit him, like 
a fist in the midriff. “A cloud is like 
.. .like. . .why, it’s like almost any- 
thing you can imagine. Sometimes it’s 
a big plate of vanilla ice cream ’way 
up in the sky without any plate under 




MOON DANCE 



It. Sometimes it’s like a face or a queer 
animal. Sometimes it’s lace around a 
pretty girl’s hair. Or it can be like a 
black knot in your stomach after 
you’ve eaten too much.” 

“Yah!” said the girl. “That’s noon- 
day talk; I don’t.” 

“You don’t what?” 

“I just don’t!” She sensed his irri- 
tation and wriggled. 

“ . . . don’t finish your sentences,” he 
snapped. “And your grammar! You’ve 
taken to talking like a guttersnipe.” 
“What’s a guttersnipe?” she tried to 
change the. subject. 

“Some say it’s a longlegged little 
bird that always gets underfoot.” He 
couldn’t help grinning at her eager 
freckledness. “But the truth is that a 
guttersnipe is a stinking cigar-butt that 
somebody has thrown away. In your 
case I’d guess the somebody was Lou 
Ruppen.” 

“Lou’s nice,” she cried. “He’s rich, 
and he’s smart, and he’s gonna ...” 
“He is going to do what?” Bill enun- 
ciated. 

“He ... he is going to help us all get 
started again when we go back to 
Earth,” she said glibly. “And he saves 
so much time when he talks to Mike.” 
“Well, you tell him sometime that 
good grammar is the mark of a gent, 
will you? By the way, did Lou give 
you that thing?” He pointed to a bright 
clip that partially controlled her silky 
hair. 

“Yeah. . . Yes. He said he was tired 
of my looking like a chrysanthemum, 
whatever that is.” 

“Give it back to him; tell him your 
father won’t let you accept gifts.” 

“Aw, gee. You and Pop are always 
picking on Lou; he’ wants to be 
friends.” 

“I’d as soon make friends with a. . . ” 
Bill broke off to make a frenzied 
snatch at the control levels. When he 
had slewed the cat away from a lava 
outcrop that could have chopped the 
inflated rollers to ribbons, and left the 
two of them stranded, he added: 




“Lou’s like that. Sharp and deadly. I 
think he’s an Incor.” 

“And he thinks you drink too much.” 
“He does, huh? Say, how about those 
lessons?” 

“Yah!” she began, then added as his 
hand swung back. “I have them ’most 
,done.” 

“Let’s hear your English lesson. Fin- 
ish reading that Hiawatha poem you 
started yesterday. And if you drop a 
single ‘G’ I’ll whack you. Right?” 
“Right.” She opened a book. “Let’s 
see. . . .Here’s my place: 

“ ‘As unto the bow the cord is, 

So unto the man is woman, 

Though she bends him, she obeys 
him 

“Hey!” she whooped. “How about 
you bendin’ a little, Bill?. . . Ouch!” 
“I warned you! ” He rubbed a smart- 
ing palm against his pants leg. “Now 
get on with it,” 

ADIE HAD finished her English 
and Geometry and was well along 
in Physics, her pet study, when the 
cat’s Geiger counter started rattling 
like a stick drawn along a picket fence. 

“Oh Lord,” Bill groaned, slowing 
down as much as he dared; “they’ve 
dropped another garbage can some- 
where around here.” 

“Where?” She joined him in squint- 
ing through the sun glare toward a 
pass in the Straight Wall that loomed 
dead ahead. “Everything was clear 
when Pete and I came through.” 
“Spang in the middle of the road, of 
course, You’d think those dopes on 
Earth sat up nights figuring where they 



13 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



could drop the stuff to cause us the 
most trouble. See it now?” 

“Yes.” Near the mouth of the pass 
she had made out what did, indeed, 
look like a giant’s trash can. Original- 
ly it had been the cheapest kind of 
space missile; the big cylinder 'had 
burst like a bomb upon impact. Its 
contents of contaminated laboratory 
apparatus, sludges and unidentifiable 
junk lay scattered for thousands of 
yards over the dust-choked plain. 

“Can’t w'e just ram through the 
stuff, like running the gauntlet in the 
Indian stories?” She singed her nose 
on the “windshield” as she leaned too 
far forward in her excitement. 

“And maybe get the cat so hot they 
won’t let her through the air lock? 
Nuh uh! We’ll try Brown’s Pass.” 

“Oh oh! Brown’s is plenty rough. 
You think that patched roller can take 
it?” 

“It’ll have to, pardner.” He gave the 
obstruction a wide berth and edged the 
crawler along the flank of that impos- 
sible 900-foot-high wall which cleaves 
upward through the plain,, a knife of, 
solid rock. “Help me watch for blow- 
holes; fall through one of those and 
we’d never be found.” 

Half an hour later they left the 
treacherous flat and began creeping 
through the equally-hazardous second- 
ary pass. Brown’s was seldom used bt? 
the miners and so had never been prop- 
erly cleared of lava chunks. Twice the 
vehicle teetered on one roller, when 
Bill was forced to drive it high on the 
side of the cleft to avoid sharp-edged 
rubble. 

They nosed down, at last, into the 
southernmost bay at the Mare Nubium. 
There they had to stop to get a. tight 
compass fix on the one reliable land- 
mark — a distant speck of glitter that 
marked the landing shutter of the 
Moon’s space port. 

The task took only a minute. Yet, 
by the time Bill had finished, the cat 
had sunk almost to the top of its roll- 
ers in impalpable pumice dust. It 



bucked and snorted like a dinosaur 
caught in a tar-pit as he threw the en- 
gine into gear. The rollers fought them- 
selves upward, inch by inch, but did 
not regain the surface until after a 
half-mile run. 

Tons of dust were hurled skyward 
by the laboring vehicle. The cloud, un- 
supported by an atmosphere, fell back 
to the ground like a solid sheet of rock. 
This tossed up a diminishing series of 
clouds that collapsed in their turn. 

Sadie peered out of the rear win- 
dow during this maneuver, hoping to 
sight one of the fabled Moon mirages. 
Nothing appeared; after the last of the 
clouds flopped down, the plains be- 
hind them lay as flat and unmarked 
as though they never had passed over 
it. 

“What would happen now?” Sadie 
stopped, then resumed hurriedly as Bill 
cast her a jaundiced glance. “I mean, 
what would happen now if our engine 
stalled or that roller blew out?” 

“I’d send out an S.O.S., hoist that 
jointed flagpole you’ll find behind the 
seat and wait for the emergency crews 
to come and dig us up.” 

“That would be fun.” Her pale blue 
eyes shone. 

“That’s what you think. It happened 
to me once. Ugh!” 

“Think we’ll beat the ship to Base 
today?” 

“Not a chance; we’re an hour late 
already.” 

“Shucks!” She bounced around in 
the seat and reopened the Physics text. 
“Say Bill, I don’t get this Unified 
Field theory stuff yet. How come grav- 
ity, ’lectricity, magnetism and space- 
time are all the same and yet differ- 
ent?” 

“Well Einstein said. . .” He was still 
explaining half an hour and ten miles 
later when a blip on the dashboard 
radar warned that the weekly ship that 
tied Moon to the Earth was coming 
down. 

“I wish it was. . .were. . .night,” said 
the girl, mindful of her recent lesson. 



MOON DANCE 



19 



AT NIGHT such a landfall was bet- 
ter than an oldtime Fourth of July 
fireworks display. The globular ship 
- would drift from among the great stars, 
ports alight and chemical braking-jets 
spouting rainbow flames. Then, just 
as she seemed about to crash, the shut- 
ter would iris open and gulp her un- 
derground in a blaze of glory. In to- 
day’s sunglare, the exhaust flare looked 
pale and tame. There was something 
majestic, however, in the geyser of 
frost particles that sho't upward as the 
shutter snapped and allowed a gush of 
air to escape from the city. The plume, 
formed because space always remains 
frigid — even when the surface of the 
Moon is baking hot — hung above the 
port like a vapor trail. 

“Reckon there’s a big shipment of 
Incors aboard this time?” asked the 
girl. 

“The shipments get bigger each 
week; I’d guess there’ll be a hundred 
of them.” 

“Oh, goody. They’re fun. Not like 
the stuffed shirts around here.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I didn’t mean you, Bill. You’re 
pretty nice most of the time. But, well, 
take Robin . . . Miss Singleton, I mean. 
She doesn’t like it because I help Pop 
at the cafe; she acts as if some Incor 
might rape me.” 

“Some of them damned well might, 
if I wasn’t around to keep an eye on 
you,” Bill growled. His task of play- 
ing nursemaid to a busy barkeeper’s 
precocious daughter already had been 
responsible for several black eyes, and 
handsful of barked knuckles. . 

“They’d have to catch me first,” 
Sadie giggled. “One did try last 
month.... Banged his head on the 
ceiling something awful. . . Five stitch- 
es!” 

"Why don’t you get acquainted with 
the tourists instead? Some of them are 
worth knowing.” 

“Yah! Tourists!” She tossed her 
tawny curls. “Their shirts aren’t even 
stuffed; they’re limp! ‘Little girl’,” 



she mimicked, “ ‘help me to my room. 

I feel doocedly queah in this low grav- 
ity.’ ‘Hey, kid. Get me a package of 
cigarettes.’ ‘You poor, poor darling; I 
think it’s terrible that you have to 
work in a low dive like that cafe.’ ” 
“Ever try talking to some of the re- 
formed Incors; the ones who have got 
fed up with Wildoatia and are heading 
home to Earth to become decent citi- 
zens?” 

“Yellow bellies,” she sneered. “Not . 
worth wasting powder and shot on.” 
“Have it your way; but keep me in 
sight when the ship’s in.” 

“Oh, sure. The noondays are start- 
ing, and those tenderfeet aren’t used 
to them; they’ll be wilder than usual. 
I’ll be extra special careful.” 

Bill sighed as he turned the cat down 
the paved ramp that led to Base’s air- 
lock for surface vehicles. He realized 
how tenuous was his control over this 
little savage. One slip— one show of 
authority that seemed unfair— and he 
would lose her. ^ 

He inched the clumsy vehicle 
through the lock, waited while a guard 
checked it for contamination, drove 
along a dimly-lighted tunnel to the 
space port, and turned over his load 
of zirconium ingots to a clerk at his 
refinery’s shipping office. Then he and 
Sadie headed for the cafe, automatical- 
ly dropping into the graceful, loping 
Moon Dance step in time to music 
that drifted from loudspeakers placed 
at every tunnel intersection. 

r T*HEY DID not have far to go. Base 
had fewer than 500 permanent in- 
habitants and was as compact as a 
beehive. Back in 1980, the first settlers 
— under the influence of futuristic il- 
lustrations in magazines and Sunday 
supplements — had made grandiose 
plans for a surface city enclosed by a 
plastic bubble. They soon found, how- 
ever, that the cost of any bubble strong 
enough to hold a breathable atmos- 
phere would be prohibitive. So, being 
sensible people, they had tunnelled into 



20 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 




the porous rottenstone that underlay 
much of the Mare Nubium’s blanket 
of heat-and-cold-insulating dust. 

Their largest cave was the spaceport 
topped by its air-conserving metal shut- 
ter. The rest of the little city was 
jammed with sunpower engines, hydro- 
ponic gardens that supplied food and 
purified the air, machine shops, stor- 
age bins, barracks and other necessary 
facilities. Nostalgically, they had 
named the connecting tunnels after the 
streets of New York. 

The one anachronism was the ridic- 
ulously spacious hotel, excavated next 
to the port. In early days it had been 
jammed with gawking tourists whose 
lavish spending met a good part of 
Base’s chronic deficit; now the hotel 
had become a white elephant, far gone 
in disrepair, and badly in need of re- 
decoration. Only its cafe and bar con- 
tinued to do a roaring business when 
Incors were in town awaiting trans- 
shipment to Venus. 

The bar was still quiet when .they 
entered. Half a dozen Moonies were 
there, having quick drinks or sand- 
wiches while they still could hear them- 
selves talk. Incors had begun drifting 
in by twos and threes after receiving 
their landing papers, but they were 
ludicrously intent on getting their 
moonlegs or on making the still great- 
er adjustment to the fact that they had 
escaped the straightjacket that United 
Stars clamped on the obstreperous. 
Tom was dispensing more bicarb and 
space oysters for queasy stomachs 
than he was selling syn. Hank, the 
broken-nosed stevedore who doubled 
as second bartender and bouncer on 
busy nights, had not yet reported for 
duty. 



“Any further news, Tom?" Bill 
asked after he had exchanged a few 
pleasantries with -the regular custom- 
ers and ordered a double syntini. Sadie, 
behind the bar already and rummag- 
ing for a coke, tilted her bright head 
for the reply. 

“The ship brought a bunch of of- 
ficials from New Washington. They’ve 
gone into a huddle with Mayor Wheat- 
on, Lou, and the mine owners.” 

“Why didn’t they ask you to sit in?” 

“Oh, the chairman, a General 
Thompson, dropped around and patted 
my head while ago: good Old Tom. 
Everything’s been decided; no use 
bothering me with details. They’ll find 
me a nice kennel on the space station.” 
Tom shrugged. 

“Did he say how they’re gonna get 
you off the Moon without killin’ you?” 
Sadie snipped, her grammar forgotten. 

Her father shrugged and poured 
Bill’s drink. 

“No chance for an appeal?” asked 
the engineer. 

“None, the general said. I asked him 
why they just didn’t dump the stuff 
out into space. He said that was un- 
controlled disposal. . .a space ship 
might ram it, or it might drift to some 
other planet. Can’t take a chance. All 
that.” 

“Did you tell him my idea of shoot- 
ing wastes into the Sun?” 

“Ummm. They had considered that. 
Trouble is that the Sun, being a big 
atomic furnace, can’t be too stable; 
start force-feeding it with radioactive 
scrap and it could go nova.” 

“One chance in a billion.” Bill sig- 
nalled for a refill. 

“No chance at all if they dump the 
stuff here. Also, I suspect the deal is 
being pushed because it gives a good 
excuse for closing out a colony that 
doesn’t pay its way.” Tom looked even 
older than usual tonight. 

“The mines and refineries pay, don’t 
they?” 

“They used to, when the only cheap 
way of refining titanium, zirconium, 



MOON DANCE 



21 



and the other refractory metals that 
are so common up here, was in a nat- 
ural high vacuum. Thompson said that 
now, since Earth’s scientists are get- 
ting the hang of using Martian plastics 
as substitutes for most metals, our re- 
fractories are a drug on the market. 
Nobody wants to pay the high space- 
freight charges.” 

“Oh.” Bill shoved his empty glass 
across the bar. 

“I’d go easy on the syn tonight, 
friend; these are noondays, and I have 
a funny feeling that almost anything 
may happen. Also, Robin wants to see 
you.” 

“0. K.” Bill flushed. “Hold that one 
till I get back.” 

“Why do you drink so much?” This 
from Sadie. “Syn tastes like it.” 

“Maybe because Lou disapproves,” 
he grinned wryly. “Or maybe just be- 
cause.” 

“Finish your sentences,” she mocked 
him. 

“You win.” He gave her curls a 
friendly yank and headed for the 
studio. 

4 

HE JUKEBOX was 
playing a samba as 
Bill entered. The lit- 
tle room was more 
crowded than he had 
ever seen it, but no- 
body was dancing; 
instead, they were 
listening to Harry 
Feldman. The b i g 
miner stopped in 
mid-sentence as the door opened, then 
grinned as he recognized the newcomer. 

“Come join the fray, Bill,” he said 
from his perch atop a chair. “This is a 
protest meeting of folks who don’t want 
the Moon debased. Robin says you 
have some ideas we can present to 
those hatchet men from New Wash- 
ington.” 

“I had an idea. Tom tells me they 



have knocked it down already. Why 
isn’t Tom here, by the way?” 

“He’ll come later, when Hank re- 
lieves him at the bar. Haven’t you any 
suggestions at all?” 

“I’d put a guard at the door, first 
thing, to keep out snoopers. Then we 
ought to elect a citizen’s committee or 
something.” 

“The- committee already has been 
elected — you and Tom and Robin and 
me. Marie, will you keep an eye on 
the corridor? If anyone we don’t trust 
comes this way, give us a nod and 
we’ll go into a square dance. To fill 
you in, Bill, the first thing the folks 
'here want to know is: can ’Stars make 
the evacuation order stick? Can it 
force us to leave against our will?” 

“That depends on what you mean 
by ‘force’. Legally, as I understand it, 
the Space Patrol has no authority to 
take us by our ears and drag us back 
to Earth. On the other hand, if we 
can’t pay for supplies — and we can’t, 
you know; the Base is running at a 
loss of several million dollars yearly — 
’Stars is perfectly within its rights if 
it stops sending "them up. I’ll leave it 
to you to figure out how long we could 
last without repair parts for the ma- 
chines.” 

Several people started talking at 
once. Feldman banged on the wall un- 
til order was restored. Then he recog- 
nized a skinny little fellow. 

“I’m H-horace Matthews,” the man 
said in a reedy voice. “I’m a physicist 
with the Copernicus Titanium Refin- 
ery. I j-just want to s-say we could 
make a g-green planet out of the 
M-Moon if they’d let us. There are 
un-un-un . . . there are limitless amounts 
of o-oxygen present h-here in the form 
of o-oxides locked up in the r-rocks. 
There’s a 1-1-1 . . . there’s unlimited wa- 
ter of crystalization in the Moon’s 
c-c-crust, too.” 

“You’re right, Horace,” Bill an- 
swered. “But where do we get the en- 
ergy we need to pry those things 
loose?” 





22 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



“We can get power from the Sun,” 
Robin reminded him wistfully. 

“Oh sure: if we had enough time 
and equipment to build thousands of 
new mirrors, mercury boilers and elec- 
tric generating stations. You know as 
well as I do that ’Stars is too poor to 
give us the mountains of stuff we’d 
need even to start such a project. Earth 
has almost run out of raw materials. 
Mars has nothing left but the plastics 
she grows. Venus...” 

“How about going to Venus, then, 
and helping the Incors develop it?” 
someone called from a far corner. 

“That’s your privilege,” Bill an- 
swered tartly; “I’d rather starve right 
here.” 

There was a rumble of agreement. 
Industrious Moonies despised the law- 
less Incors. 

“Could we use the power plants of 
the mines and refineries?” Feldman’s 
bass voice cut across the growing up- 
roar. “My plant alone develops a mil- 
lion horsepower.” 

“How would your plant pay for fuel 
if it switched over from extracting 
hafnium for export to producing water 
and oxygen?” 

“Yeah. How would it?” the superin- 
tendent agreed. “The plant would be 
down in three months if ’Stars cut off 
its plutonium supply.” 

A chunky, middle-aged woman held 
up her hand. 

“Yes?” said the chairman. 

“I’m Sarah Anderson, in charge of 
the commissary,” she said. “I think 
we’re getting in too much of a sweat 
about this. After all, it will take sev- 
eral years to get that space platform 
built. Meanwhile, something may turn 
up.” 

“Listen to Mrs. Micawber talk!” 
somebody jeered. 

Bill felt a tug at his sleeve. It was 
Robin, her dark eyes big as saucers. 
“I have an idea,” she whispered. 

“Tell it to the big gentleman on the 
little chair.” 



“No, Bill; not yet. I want to talk to 
you and Tom about it first.” 

Bill nodded and got the floor. “Since 
this is only a rump session,” he said, 
“and since none of us has come up with 
very concrete suggestions, I propose 
that we adjourn until tomorrow at this 
time. That will give the Citizens’ Com- 
mittee a chance to confer with the of- 
ficials from New Washington. In the 
meantime, all of us can do some hard 
thinking.” 

“Any objections?” Feldman asked. 
There being none, the meeting broke 
up. 

piVE MINUTES later Robin, Bill 
and Harry were closeted with Tom 
in the little kitchen and stock room 
back of the bar. Sadie was there too, 
on the plea that she could not finish 
her lessons amidst the rising uproar 
outside. 

“Robin has an idea,” Bill said over 
the rim of a cocktail glass after Tom 
had been filled in regarding events at 
the meeting. “Spill it, honey.” 

“It’s... Well, you see...” The 
dancer twisted her fingers together. 
“I’m so rusty on my physics. . .” 

“What would I give 'to be as rusty 
as you are!” Sadie piped up. 

“Pay attention to your lessons!” 
Tom rapped. Then to Robin: “Speak 
up, child; maybe you have a new ap- 
proach. God knows we need one.” 

“I got to thinking that, well, if 
they’re determined to make the Moon 
a garbage heap, why can’t we set up a 
garbage disposal plant?” 

The others looked blank'. 

“All the stuff they’re throwing at us 
is long half-life waste,” she rushed on, 
“things they don’t dare dump in the 
sea any more for fear of what may 
crawl out of the water in a few hun- 
dred or thousand years; sludges that 
can’t be buried because eventually 
they’ll seep into the water table and 
poison people for miles around; equip- 
ment contaminated with Plutonium 
239, say, that stays hot for 24,000 



MOON DANCE 



23 



years. They don't worry about radio- 
actives that burn up quick. It’s the 
stuff that keeps radiating practically 
forever that scares them. Dr. H. J. 
Muller — the man who did all those ex- 
periments with fruit flies 50 years or 
so ago — once said these long-half-life 
wastes eventually could destroy a fifth 
of the human race.” 

“Honey,” Bill said impatiently, 
“even Sadie knows about the birds, 
the bees and the fruit flies.” 

“Of course. Of course!” she almost 
screamed at him. “But do you know 
how much energy would be released 
if all the long-half-life stuff could be 
turned into short-half-life elements or 
isotopes?” 

“I know,” Harry sighed. “It would 
amount to googleplex to the tenth pow- 
er megacuries, or something like that. 
But what’s the use of dreaming about- 
that. It can’t be done, even theoretical- 
ly. Carbon 14 stays Carbon 14, with 
its half-life of 5568 years. And so on 
down the line. You can’t change na- 
ture.” 

“Now wait a minute, Harry! They 
used to say that about human nature, 
too, but ’Stars has made some changes 
recently. And what about that half- 
life equation = °j ; — ? When you 
change k, the proportionality factor, or 
0.693, the concentration, then the half- 
life time has to change, too, hasn’t it?” 

“It says in this book,” put in Sadie, 
the irrepressible, “that when you bom- 
bard U-238 — half-life, thousands of 
years — with resonance neutrons, you 
get Neptunium with a half-life of only 
a few hours plus oodles of electron- 
volts.” 

“Of course you do,” Robin cried. 
“Elements are being transmuted right 
along; in minute quantities, of course. 
Down on Earth it only pays to trans- 
mute the most radioactive ones, like 
uranium and thorium. Some of the di- 
luted wastes are used as tracers or for 
treatment of cancer, but it’s cheaper to 
throw the rest of them away.” 




“Like they used to throw away mine- 
tailings until the rich ores ran out,” 
Harry agreed. “But look, Robin; to 
make your idea pay, you’d need vac- 
uum tubes as tall as mountains, tem- 
peratures as hot as those in the center 
of the sun, and a reactor as big as the 
Moon!” ■ 

“Well?” she said. 

“Great jumping Jehoshaphat!” Bill 
was catching fire. “Right outside the 
Base we have a perfect vacuum. Sur- 
face temperatures here go down near 
absolute zero when the Sun sets. In 
the daytime they go above 200 degrees 
and could be boosted right through 
the roof by means of our sun engine 
mirrors. The Moon is one huge per- 
manent magnet. We can make electrons 
chase their tails around it like no cos- 
motron ever has done; we won’t need 
expensive coolants, moderators and 
lead shielding. Why, the whole Moon 
can be turned into the most powerful 
and efficient reactor ever dreamed of 
at very little cost.” 

“Then the wastes will supply us with 
enough power to turn the planet in- 
side out if we want to.” Harry was 
grinning from ear to ear. 

“Sure. Eventually we can have an 
atmosphere, lakes, grass, cows... even 
clouds! Robin, you’re a genius I Why 
didn’t I think of this?” Bill hurled his 
glass across the room, swept the teach- 
er into his long arms and kissed her 
soundly. 

HPOM SAID, as he mopped up, “You 
probably didn’t think of it, because 
you knew that President Brown of 
United States would sit heavily on the 
whole scheme.” 

“Why?” the others chorused. 



24 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



“Because Brownie always puts his 
eggs in one basket. Always! I know 
him of old. When he gets a bee in his 
bonnet there’s no room for two: the 
Sahara irrigation project. Melting the 
polar ice caps. The Martian War. It’s 
always the same with him. Right now 
he is pouring all the funds that ’Stars 
can scrape together into the Pluto rec- 
lamation. He won’t divert a dollar in 
our direction.” 

“Not even if we can show him that 
our project will be self-liquidating?” 
cried the super. 

“That’s a big if, Harry.” 

“Horace Matthews is one of the best 
physicists in the System; I’ll bet that 
he and Robin and Bill could rig up our 
reactor out of the high-vac equipment 
at Copernicus.” 

“But Brownie isn’t a betting man. 
Besides, he needs that equipment on 
Pluto.” 

“We can talk things over with the 
mine owners,” Harry said halfhearted- 
ly. 

“Will they gamble on a crazy scheme 
which will mean bankruptcy for them 
if it fails? Especially since New Wash- 
ington will compensate them if they 
get out?” Tom cocked his head as the 
sounds of a fight in the cafe blasted 
through the kitchen door. “Guess Hank 
can handle them a while longer,” he 
said as a bull-like roar quieted the 
ruckus. 

“What’s our next move, then, Tom?” 
Bill asked. 

“Oh, we should go muscle in on that 
meeting, I suppose. We can tell ’em 
our idea and get turned down. Or we 
can stall for time until we have put 
our proposition up to the mine own- 
ers. . .and get turned down. There’s al- 
ways the danger, too, that our plan 
will leak to the Incor underground here 
at Base; that wouldn’t be good.” 

“How about us setting up a Moon 
Free State?” Harry wanted to know. 
“That’s permissible under the United 
Stars charters, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” Tom straightened proudly. “I 



got that provision written into the 
Charter, practically over Brown’s dead 
body. He kept yelling that no veto 
power could be permitted. But Mars 
backed me up. So Article 9, Section '28, 
reads : 

“ ‘No habitable planet or satel- 
lite can be forced to join United 
Stars, or to maintain membership 
therein against the will oj a major- 
ity of the inhabitants oj said plan- 
et or satellite.’ 

“In other words, there can be no 
ganging up on, or coercion of, any 
’Stars member, no matter how weak it 
may be.” 

“Whoopee! Let’s secede!” Sadie 
tossed her textbook into the air. “Then 
Bill and me will fill a cat with carbon 
black and write ‘No Dumping Allowed’ 
signs all over the landscape, in letters 
big enough for everyone on Earth to 
read when the Moon is full. I bet 
that’ll stop those New Washington 
b...” 

“Sadie!” yelled her father. 

“Sorry, pop.” She caught her book 
as it drifted down from the ceiling. 

“It won’t work,” Harry gloomed. 
“If we secede, ’Stars can claim it has 
no further obligation to us; it will stop 
sending supplies and starve us out.” 
“Money,” said Bill, “is a wonderful 
thing.” 

“Lou says Wildoatia is rolling in 
it,” answered Sadie. 

“What if we don’t secede but do 
put up those no-dumping signs?” Rob- 
in perched herself on a table edge and 
swung one long leg thoughtfully. “No- 
body ever asked us for a permit to 
dump. And that evacuation order . . . 
we didn’t agree to that, either. Tom, 
you’re a space lawyer; couldn’t those 
things be classed as coercion under the 
Charter?” 

“Robin, you’ve missed your call- 
ing!” When Tom took off his dark 
glasses to polish them there was a light 
in his eyes that hadn’t been there for 



MOON DANCE 



25 



years. “You’ve made a case that will 
stand up in any court of interstellar 
law. It will be coercion if dumping 
makes the Moon uninhabitable; and it 
will be coercion if it becomes unin- 
habitable because supplies have been 
cut off. Come on, all of you. Let’s start 
a fire under our visiting firemen.” 




HE CAFE crowd 
was getting into 
stride, they found as 
they left the kitchen. 
Hank was serving 
drinks in a frenzy. 
Four youths with 
clipped heads and 
pallid complexions 
had mounted a table 
and were tuning up 
a barber shop quartet. A blond fellow 
with a half-healed knife scar across 
his cheek was attempting a sailor’s 
hornpipe. His gyrations, which had 
onlookers near hysterics, shuttled him 
between floor and ceiling like a bad- 
minton birdie. Along the walls a few 
slumming tourists huddled in booths 
waiting for service. They stared at the 
Incors like birds at snakes. 

“I’ll wait on tables,” Sadie told her 
father. She ducked back into the kitch- 
en for menus and setups. 

The committeemen nodded to a 
Space Patrolman who had posted him- 
self in the hotel lobby, just outside the 
cafe door. 

“Happy Noondays,” he grinned 
back; “I’ll ride herd on the boys in 
the back room.” 

They left the lobby and entered a 
cramped grey tunnel eight feet or so 
in diameter. This was “Broadway”, 
main thoroughfare of the underground 
city. Disdaining the handrails provid- 
ed for the assistance of Earthlubbers, 
they loped along briskly to the eternal 
music. Most of the dugout shops and 
offices they passed already had their 
windows boarded up in case the In- 



cors started pulling things apart later, 
as they often did. At “57th Street” 
they turned right into the large and 
brightly-lighted cave that bore a sign 
reading “City Hall.” 

Ruppen came out of an inner room 
as the others were presenting their 
names to an S. P. guard. He grunted 
at them, then lumbered toward a phone 
booth, one hand sliding along a hand- 
rail to keep him on his clumsy feet. 
Ten minutes later he returned, grin- 
ning like a big black cat, and reen- 
tered the conference room. Then there 
was a further wait of 20 minutes be- 
fore the guard brought the Moonies 
into the august precincts. 

General Ferdinand Thompson, 
’Stars’ lean and hungry Minister of 
Colonies, greeted Tom coolly, and bare- 
ly acknowledged the introductions that 
followed. Mayor Wheaton, Ruppen, 
and Wheeler Kennicot — a hardbitten, 
black-browed individual who always 
acted as spokesman for the mine own- 
ers — did net bother to conceal their 
impatience. 

“We are on the verge of adjourn- 
ment,” Thompson grumbled as he 
flicked a bit of pumice from the sleeve 
of his white uniform. “To what do we 
owe this, ah, unexpected visit, Mr. 
Kane? I thought I explained to you 
this afternoon that it will be useless to 
protest the evacuation order.” 

“My committee has no particular in- 
terest in the evacuation order, Gener- 
al,” Tom grumbled right back at him. 
“It is null, void and unenforceable un- 
der Article 9, Section 28, of the Unit- 
ed Stars Charter.” 

Thompson jumped. The involuntary 
motion lifted him two feet from the 
floor. He lost most of his dignity while 
regaining some of his balance. 

“Now see here, Tom!” he exploded. 
“This isn’t like the old days. I don’t 
have to tolerate any of your ...” He 
choked. “That section doesn’t apply 
here.” 

“Relax, Ferdie,” grinned the bar- 
tender. “The section doesn’t apply to 




26 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 




a dead planet; that’s why I didn’t 
mention it this afternoon. But I have 
since learned that the Moon isn’t dead. 
It is merely paralyzed; we Moonies 
intend to revive it.” 

Robin squeezed Bill’s hand delight- 
edly at this interchange. Tom was los- 
ing the beaten, tired look that had set- 
tled upon him in recent years. At the 
same time Thompson was reverting to 
the role of badgered under-secretary 
that he must have occupied when the 
Charter was being forged. 

“My dear Mr. Kane,” the general 
started all over again, “I haven’t the 
slightest idea what you mean by that 
last statement. Moreover, it does seem 
late in the day for you to raise your 
objections. Mayor Wheaton ...” he 
bowed to the fat man with the fixed 
smile who sat at the table, “ . . . has ac- 
cepted the plan in toto. He is the 
elected representative of all residents 
of the Moon, yet he did not mention 
that there was any opposition to the 
evacuation order.” 

“He didn’t ask us; he was too busy 
playing footsy with Wheeler Kennicot 
and Lou Ruppen.” 

“Please, Mr. Kane! This is an im- 
portant meeting . . . Now you claim 
that your committee represents the 
rank and file colonists. Havg you held 
a referendum, as is required by law?” 

“I hold one every night — at the bar 
— the bar of public opinion, let me 
add. And, before you start hemming 
and hawing, may I remind you that 
’Stars sent me up here with specific 
instructions to keep my ear to the, uh, 
mahogany.” 

“Yes. Yes. Of course.” Thompson 
mopped his forehead. “Now this plan 
you spoke of for reviving the Moon. 



It sounds preposterous but perhaps 
you had better explain it.” 

nrOM EXPLAINED, calling upon 
the other committee members for 
technical details. As he talked, Thomp- 
son’s face grew even longer and sour- 
er; Wheaton’s smile flickered on and 
off like a neon sign in need of repair. 
Kennicot started by being bored and 
finished up taking frantic notes on the 
back of an old envelope. Ruppen mani- 
cured his spade-shaped fingernails. 

“Impossible!” the general exploded 
as the bartender finished. “Science-fic- 
tion imagineering. Even if transmuta- 
tion were possible on any such scale 
the cost would be fantastic. . .prohibi- 
tive.” 

“Only under terrestial conditions.” 
Tom lighted one of the five cigarettes 
that his doctor permitted him to have 
each day. “Not under conditions as 
they exist on the Moon or ...” He blew 
a lungful of smoke at his old enemy 
“. . .as they exist on Pluto, on the as- 
teroids, or even on that crazy space 
platform which ’Stars insists on build- 
ing.” 

“It will work, General!” Kennicot 
spoke for the first time, his voice 
harsh with excitement. “It’s one of 
those ideas that men keep stumbling 
over but don’t notice. Like movable 
type, the sewing machine, or the gas 
turbine which they ignored for SO years 
while beating their brains out to devel- 
op inefficient piston engines. Everyone 
says it can’t work, so nobody tries to 
make it work. Good Lord!” He stared 
at the figures on his envelope as though 
they had bitten him. 

Thompson dropped his sodden hand- 
kerchief. He grabbed for it and 
grabbed too low, of course: Trying to 
correct his mistake he tipped over like 
a badly-balanced doll. Bill caught him 
by the armpits and set him back on his 
feet. 

“Well,” he stuttered. “This puts a 
new light on the matter; perhaps the 
evacuation order can be postponed af- 



MOON DANCE 



27 



ter all. Will that make your people 
happy, Tom?” 

“No, Ferdie.” The old man looked 
20 years younger. “We’ll require capi- 
tal to get started. How much would 
you say we’d need, Harry?” 

The superintendent scratched his 
head and thought deeply. “Plenty,” he 
said at last. “Let’s say the atom bomb 
project cost the various nations a total 
of twelve billion dollars. I’d say we 
could do with ten.” 

“Twenty!” said Kennicot. “Other- 
wise it will take a lifetime to get into 
production.” 

“Twenty billion DOLLARS!” 
Thompson yelped. “There isn’t that 
much money in the entire solar system 
right now. Maybe someday, after Pluto 
is brought in ... ” 

“Now,” said Tom. “Otherwise we 
will refuse to allow any more dump- 
ing.” 

“You can’t do that... Or, uh...” 
The general’s once-immaculate uniform 
was wet under the armpits. “If you do 
make a no-dumping rule, I’ll starve 
you out.” 

“’Naughty!” Tom tormented him. 
“That would be coercion.” 

“All right,” bellowed the harried dip- 
lomat. “I don’t think you Moonies can 
make this shakedown stick. But let’s 
admit, for the sake of the argument, 
that you can. Say we stop dumping; 
say we have to continue sending food 
and other things needed to keep you 
alive up here. But we don’t have to 
continue subsidizing the products of 
your mines and refineries; they’re ob- 
solescent. Keep them! See how you 
like stewing in your own juice!” 

“And see how you like stewing in 
atomic wastes,” Tom said softly. “I 
understand that The Allergy is barely 
under control, even as things stand 
now.” 

“We’ll dump our wastes out in 
space.” 

“Mars and Venus would object and 
so would we,” Bill spoke up. “Some 
day you might even get complaints 



from beings on other solar systems.” 

“Could you manage with, say, five 
billions as a starter?” Thompson capi- 
tulated. 

Kennicot opened his slit of a mouth 
but Tom cut him off. “Ten,” Ke said 
firmly. “Perhaps we can borrow the 
rest from Mars or Venus.” 

“I’ll try,” groaned the general. “The 
system is overstrained as the result of 
the Pluto Project; this may bankrupt 
it. But I’ll do my best.” 

OUPPEN looked up, after buffing his 
last nail to a high lustre. “Gentle- 
men,” he said with a wolfish smile, “I 
regret to tell you that this discussion 
is academic. There will be no garbage 
disposal project; Wildoatia — Venus — 
cannot permit it.” 

“Since when has Wildoatia dictated 
to United Stars?” Thompson bristled. 

“Wildoatia has been in a position to 
dictate for five years,” the hotel man 
said gently. “We supply the other 
worlds with at least 95 per cent of 
their uranium. If we cut off that sup- 
ply.” He shrugged. 

“We?” The general was looking at 
him in horror. 

“Of course; I’m sure Tom has 
warned you repeatedly that I was a 
big shot in the Wildoatian setup.” 

“Yes, but. . . A hotel keeper! It was 
too ...” Thompson subsided. 

“You underestimate our portly old 
friend, General. He is no has-been; 
showed remarkable astuteness in dan- 
gling that bid for a Wildoatian loan. I 
regret.” 

“Why?” Tom was sweating now. “It 
would be a sure thing?” 

“For a while, yes; but it would mean 
the eventual finish of Wildoatia. Let 
me explain the obvious. Wildoatia has 
a near-monopoly on the only remain- 
ing power source in the solar system. 
And we Incors have Wildoatia. 

“Now. . .present methods of ura- 
nium fission are only about ten per cent 
efficient; maybe only one percent. The 



28 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



rest is waste. . .waste that has been 
or will be dumped on the Moon.” He 
regarded his predatory nails. “But a 
method has been stumbled upon that 
promises to wring a major part of the 
available energy from those wastes. 
There will be enough of that energy, 
you say, to rebuild the Moon? Why, 
there’ll be enough of it to keep Earth 
humming for a generation! 

“It happens that I hold quite a 
block of Wildoatian Kingfish U., Pre- 
ferred. Today it was quoted on Wall 
Street’s Big Board at 785 and I am a 
wealthy man; tomorrow, if this story 
gets out, uranium stock won’t be worth 
the paper. And I will be.” He spread 
his hands. 

“Just how do you propose to put 
our atomic cat back in the bag?” Tom 
asked. He had regained his poise while 
Lou talked; only a slight shaking of 
his fingers as he lit a second cigarette 
showed the strain he was under. 

“Very simply. When I got the tip- 
off from Sadie. . .” 

“Sadie!” Tom sagged against the 
conference table like a man of straw, 
his cigarette drifting to the floor. 
“Sadie doublecrossed us? Sadie turned 
Incor?” 

T OU SAID, with the magnanimity a 
champion shows to a worthy but 
fallen foe, “She didn’t doublecross you 
and it’ll fake me a long time to make a 
good Incor out of her. No, Sadie was 
trying to work your side of the street. 
The poor kid figured that, if I knew 
about your scheme, I might help you 
put a burr under Thompson’s tail. She 
almost had me sold, too; until she let 
slip the fact that nobody else had been 
told about it. 

“She balked and yelled bloody mur- 
der, then, when I tried to sell her on 
my plan. I had to call Mike on anoth- 
er line and have him smack her around 
a bit. After all, Tom,” he added half- 
apologetically, “I didn’t dare take a 
chance on having her blab to some 
Moonie before we had time to build 



fences around Kingfish U; she finally 
agreed to go along.” 

“Go along where?” Robin husked. 
“Why, to Wildoatia, of course, with 
the rest of you. There’s a great future 
out there for any tough youngster who 
knows anything at all about nucleonics. 
As soon as I got her to agree to help, 
I told Mike to rally the gang and grab 
the ship. A few of the crew are under- 
cover Incors, of course; most of the 
boys at the hotel are with me. Even 
have won over a Patrolman or two . . . 
including ■ the guard outside, in case 
any of you are thinking. 

“Then there was the mob at the 
cafe. Green, most of them, but since 
no alarm has sounded, the job must 
have been done. So, if you gentlemen 
. . .and Miss Singleton. . .will come 
along quietly, I promise you safe con- 
duct to Wildoatia.” 

“You haven’t a chance in a million.” 
There was something akin to awe and 
unwilling admiration in Robin’s voice. 

“Incors like our chances long . . . and 
our women slim.” tie mapped every 
sweet curve of her with his bold eyes. 
“The odds, are more like ten to one, 
though. I told Mike that if all eight 
of us didn’t join him on the ship at 
nineteen hundred, he was to take her 
up on chemicals for half a mile or so, 
then fire her atomics and melt down 
the shutter. Tt is now eighteen thirty.” 
He rose. 

“You’d really do that!” There was 
no doubt in Robin’s horrified cry. 
“You’d blast or suffocate yourself, and 
two thirds of all the people on the 
Moon. Just for the sheer hell of it!” 
“Your death would be my only re- 
gret; but that isn’t going to happen 
unless we linger here.” 

“This Will Mean War! ” Thompson 
croaked. 

“ ’Stars will have quite a time dig- 
ging the Incors out of Venus. Come 
along, children.” 

“Bluff!” Fists flailing, Bill launched 
himself like a club across the confer- 
ence table. 



MOON DANCE 



29 



J.ou was no longer there. He ducked 
tinder the table top, kicked himself 
across the room and was through the 
door before the others could draw 
breath. 

Seconds later Bill sailed through af- 
ter him. This time his fist did connect 
. . .with the chin of the renegade pa- 
trolman. 

The engineer halted just long enough 
to stop Tom's mad dash. 

“Easy!” he commanded. “You’ll kill 
yourself. Stay here; alert the Patrol. 
Call Muzak and have ’em put some 
fighting music . . . something like ‘The 
Campbells are Coming’, on the speak- 
ers. That will bring Moonies from all 
directions to help.” 

“Hurry, Bill! Hurry!” Robin was 
screaming. “Lou can’t dance: there’s 
still time to catch him.” 

6 

HEN THEY burst 
out into the street, 
Robin fully expected 
to see Lou either at 
bay there or drag- 
ging himself fran- 
tically along the 
Earthlubber railings. 
Instead, he was sash- 
aying easily, a good 
block ahead, to the 
tune of “Jets Away.” 

“The louse!” she wailed. “I should 
have known it. Hit him once, Bill, for 
every toe of mine that he has stepped 
on.” 

“I wish I had that drink I threw 
away,” Bill panted at her elbow. He 
was only a mediocre dancer, and the 
pace already was beginning to tell. He 
missed a step, stumbled and slid fif- 
teen feet. 

Robin took the lead. Harry, the Sil- 
ver Medalist, moved into second. Bill, 
Kennicot and Wheaton stayed bunched. 
Thompson was nowhere. 

The port, naturally, was located at 
“Times Square.” As the long race 



southward went on it became almost 
certain that Lou would get there first. 
Robin’s muscular, well-trained legs 
were narrowing the gap, but not 
enough. 

At “44th Street” they began to hear 
the roar of the ship’s jets warming up. 
The dancing teacher and the super put 
on a desperate sprint; at the same mo- 
ment the" loudspeakers let out a star- 
tled squawk, followed by a baritone 
voice roaring the chorus of “Lillibur- 
lero.” 

The unexpected shift caused the ho- 
tel man to miss a step at last; he fell 
gracelessly, slid and caromed into a 
plate glass shop window. 

Robin was on him like a cat. One 
hand scratched at his eyes; the other 
scrabbled for a sliver of glass with 
which to cut his bull throat. 

Before Harry could arrive to help, 
Lou straight-armed the girl, bounced 
to his feet and loped on. Seconds later 
he vaulted one of the lead barriers sur- 
rounding the landing field. 

A wild Rebel Yell from the waiting 
Incors greeted his appearance. The 
pursuers arrived at the shield just as 
their quarry was being dragged through 
a closing air lock. 

Harry beat his fists against the bar- 
rier and sobbed his frustration. 

“We’ve got to get away from here 
before blast-off,” shouted Bill as he 
pelted up. 

“Does it matter?” said Robin be- 
tween long, shuddering breaths. 

“I want to see what hits me,” the 
engineer said grimly. “Here. Into the 
control tower.” 

They followed him into a little room 
topped by a transparent bubble. A 
man lay across the panel, blood ooz- 
ing from a gash in his scalp. The con- 
trols had been locked in takeoff posi- 
tion. 

“There she goes,” Harry shouted. 

The hydrozene rocket blast built to 
an earsplitting wail. The big ship shud- 
dered; rose slowly on a pillow of 
flame. 





30 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



The shutter snapped open. The ship 
darted through; the shutter irjsed 
shut. 

A nervewracked silence settled over 
the port. Only a whirl of snowflakes; 
only a few sprawled, scorched bodies 
remained to tell of the coup. 

“Goodbye, Bill darling,” Robin 
whispered. “I love you, you big goril- 
la.” He squeezed her hand, his eyes 
fixed on the hovering ship. Still on the 
chemical jets-, she wavered and bounced 
like a leaf in an air current. 

“Get it over with, damn you,” Harry 
said through clenched teeth. 

The holes in the ship’s stern that 
marked the atomic jets... jets meant 
only for use in deep space. . .blinked. 

But they did not build to that sear- 
ing glare that could melt armor plate 
at half a mile. They blinked, blinked, 
blinked like malevolent blind eyes. 

“He’s going -to torture us a bit,” 
Harry gritted. 

“No,” said Bill. 

“No?” Robin shook his arm fran- 
tically. 

“Watch!” said Bill. 

The ship slid off to one side . . . Rid- 
ing on chemicals near the ground is a 
dangerous maneuver. . . She recovered. 
The atomics flickered once more. And 
died! 

The hydrozene jets came on full 
blast. The ship began to climb. A min- 
ute later she was a toy in the black 
sky. Another minute and she had van- 
ished. 

nrHE LOUDSPEAKERS , were bel- 
lowing. . . . 

“Sons of toil and danger, 

Will you serve a stranger , 

And bow down to Burgundy?’’ 

Bill took Robin in his arms and 
whirled her around the little room. 
“That kid!” he cried at last. “That 
wonderful child! I knew she’d come 
through.” 



“What in God’s name are you blith- 
ering about?” Harry demanded. “What 
kid?” 

“'Sadie, of course. She saved our 
lives; she jimmed those atomic jets.” 

“You’re raving. Sadie wouldn’t know 
a moderator from a slug.” Harry 
turned to an examination of the con- 
trol man’s w'ound. “Robin, find me 
some hot water. I think we can bring 
this fellow around.” 

“Did Sadie ever visit your mine?” 
Bill asked as the teacher ran out. 

“That was one curse that never came 
upon us.” 

“Well, she practically lived at my 
place after ’Stars started skimping us 
on repair parts. Got so she could take 
a balky engine apart and put it back 
together better.” 

“You mean. . . ” Harry straightened 
from his nursing. “You mean those 
jets are jammed for good.” 

“That’s W'hat I mean. She must have 
made a bee-line for ihe engine room 
after she got Mike properly buttered 
up; if I know her, she did a thorough 
job of sabotage.” 

“You mean that ship can’t make 
Venus?” 

“That’s wdiat I mean. The hydrozene 
won’t last long enough to build up 
escape velocity. The crew can make 
Wildoatia in lifeboats, but that ship 
is a derelict.” 

“You mean Lou won’t be a big shot 
when he gets to Venus?” 

“That’s what I mean; he’ll be the 
smallest shot imaginable: B.B., in fact. 
And if he knows what’s good for him 
he’ll send Sadie back on the next boat. 
Otherwise she’s likely to take over 
the joint. In a few years I can just 
hear her: ‘Yah! Incors.’ ” 

Solemnly they shook hands. 

Robin, returning with hot water, 
bandages and a crowd of panting 
Moonies, found them still pumping 
avray. She kissed them both. 

* 



White was the color of the suspect citizen, the man who 
deviated from the normal code of behaviour; and the 
suspect citizen could wear no other color. And Daro, 
Director of Security, realized that he himself was in 
danger, because of his feelings for Tarnal. That was when 
he began to realize how ruthless even a regime which 
eschewed violence could be . . . 




by D. A. Jourdan 



illustrated by Ed. Emsh 

ARO PARKED his aircraft in 
the space provided alongside 
the tangle of tall buildings, 
stepped out, and headed briskly for 
Tamal’s quarters. Ordinarily he pre- 
ferred a fair distance between his 
dwelling and that of any of his joy- 
mates; but in Tamal’s case, the dis- 
tance seemed to be getting longer all 
the time. 



He didn’t need to count floors to 
the twenty-second to see whether her 
apartment was lighted, he was happily 
certain she would be there, waiting 
for him. He could almost see the 
sparkle in her eyes, a sparkle he fer- 
vently hoped was brighter for him than 
it was for any of her other joymates. 
He paused in mid-stride in shock 
at his thought. As a psychiatrist — - 




31 



32 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



despite his stern obligations as Direc- 
tor of Security— -Daro preferred to per- 
mit the widest possible latitude in sex 
attitudes for the unbalanced. But it 
was a stunning blow to find such an al- 
most criminal desire in his own mind 
as a longing for preference among his 
joymate’s other lovers. Many a man 
wore the white tunic of the suspect citi- 
zen for less. He continued to the en- 
trance and elevator more slowly. 

When Tamal opened the door, he 
studied her carefully and thoughtfully. 
She looked, Daro realized, much like 
himself. Centuries of calculated breed- 
ing had greatly reduced differences of 
appearance, exactly as the State had 
hoped. And x similarity of appearance 
had decreased fear and increased un- 
derstanding among people, also as the 
State had hoped. 

Tamal was pretty as all healthy 
females were pretty — pink-skinned 
and brown haired in her case — but cer- 
tainly no prettier than dark Starra, 
Daro’s only other joymate at the mo- 
ment. 

He held her for several seconds, try- 
ing to discern what about Tamal 
could have precipitated his attitude. 
She was intelligent and charming, but 
so was Starra; and he had never found 
Starra — or any other joymate, till 
Tamal — inciting fantasies of compet- 
ing successfully with other irfales for 
her. 

Tamal wriggled impatiently in his 
arms and her brown eyes began to draw 
into a frown. Daro stopped analyzing 
and under his kiss her eyes again grew 
warmly approving. He hoped fleeting- 
ly that his own exaggerated approval of 
Tamal was simply the State’s objective 
of greater understanding among citi- 
zens carried to an extreme; then he 
stopped thinking with any degree of 
detachment. 

He was still reluctant to do any self- 
analysis later when he flung himself 
down in pleasant fatigue to watch 
Tamal dress. He noticed she was tak- 
ing quite a long time. She was still in 



her houserobe, bustling busily around 
the quarters she shared with two other 
girls of her own age and intelligence- 
quotient group, now courteously ab- 
sent. 

“If you want a regular dinner,” he 
advised her lazily, “you know you'll 
have to hurry; otherwise we’ll just get 
buffet.” Day workers were expected 
to reach dining areas within time limits. 
Latecomers received a much simpler 
and sparser meal. 

Tamal was in the bathroom. She 
peered at him around the edge of the 
door. “Let’s not go eat. . . ” She looked 
as though she thought her suggestion 
was very funny. 

Daro raised his eyebrow. “Loving 
you makes me want to stay healthy,” 
he objected. “Let’s.” 

CHE HAD withdrawn back into the 
^bathroom. He frowned, tried to 
identify the odor in the apartment. It 
smelled exactly like chicken soup, but 
of course that was ridiculous. The 
cooking areas were all so thoroughly 
vented that no suggestion of food odors 
would ever reach even the recreation 
rooms — which adjoined the dining 
halls — much less travel to the dwell- 
ing quarters. 

Tamal whisked through the room 
and took a small container from a 
built-in chest of drawers and hurried 
back into the bathroom; she had 
wrapped a large towel around her 
waist, over her houserobe. 

“What is that?” Daro demanded as 
she disappeared back into the bath- 
room. 

“What is what?” 

“That thing around you. And if 
you’re doing something difficult or un- 
pleasant can I help?” He felt wonder- 
fully comfortable and happy; in some 
odd way even the errant suggestion of 
chicken soup that had wandered into 
the apartment seemed to add to his 
pleasure. 

There was the sound of stifled laugh- 
ter from the bathroom. Tamal con- 



CHANGE OF COLOR 



33 



trolled her voice. “What I’m doing is 
neither difficult nor unpleasant. And 
this is an apron; people used to wear 
them when cooking...” 

Daro said tolerantly, “Aprons. 
Cooking.” He raised his voice a trifle. 
“Are you a researcher in genetics, or 
are you a cook?” 

“Right now I’m a cook.” Tarnal 
sounded almost grim. 

Daro got up and went to the bath- 
room, looked in. “Tamal, seriously I’m 
really hungry — ” He broke off and 
stared at her. She was crouched over 
stirring something in a vessel on a 
stand over a can of chemical heat on the 
floor. “Is that some beauty prepara- 
tion?” he asked doubtfully. “It smells 
for all the world like chicken 
soup. . . ” 

She straightened up and stared at 
him defiantly. Her delicate skin was 
pinker than usual. “It is chicken soup; 
it’s for our dinner tonight ...” 

“But why — ” He spread his hands 
helplessly. “If you’re not well enough 
to go to the dining hall, you know you 
can have room service!” 

“I didn’t want room service!” Tamal 
went back to her stirring. “I wanted 
to cook your dinner; all the girls are 
doing it. Verna does favors for a kitch- 
en worker, and he steals the things for 
us when he can.” Tamal added gloomi- 
ly, “It’s getting harder all the time. 
So many more people are doing it, it’s 
harder all the time to hide.” 

“But why?” Daro repeated fuddled- 
ly. “Why do it? You get the same food 
in the dining hall. It will be sent up 
if you’re ill. Why steal the food to cook 
it in secret?” 

Tamal’s eyes were very cool con- 
trasted with her cheeks. “I was afraid 
you wouldn’t understand.” Her soft 
mouth was visibly bitter. “I shouldn’t 
have expected it of a Chief Assistant 
Director of Security — even though 
some understanding might be hoped 
for from a psychiatrist.” 

“And, I flatter myself,” Daro said, 
hurt, “not a bad psychiatrist; just what 



is it that I should understand, but 

don’t?” 

Tamal took _a deep breath. “That I 
love you.” She said it almost angrily. 
“And that when a woman loves a man 
she wants to cook for him ...” She 
bent over the food container, hiding 
her face. 

“Is that it,” Daro said, relieved. “I 
love you too, my dear. In fact,” he 
said shyly, “I was wondering if you 
would disapprove or think me odd if 
I admitted that I hope you will be my 
joymate for a very long time. Per- 
haps,” he said daringly, “forever...” 
It was frowned on, but sometimes ex- 
tremely-balanced citizens were excused 
from their social obligation constantly 
to change their joymates. 

Tamal studied him. “I don’t disap- 
prove.” She said calmly, almost fore- 
bodingly, “I will be your joymate for- 
ever. And exclusively...” 

T~\ARO RESTED the back of his 
hand against her forehead. “You 
must be feverish,” he said with convic- 
tion. “I’m taking you to a health con- 
servatory, now!” He put his lips over 
her beginning protest, raising his own 
temperature to what he suspected hers 
to be. “I couldn’t stand anything to 
happen to you ...” 

“Oh, you fool!” Tamal said, shov- 
ing him violently away from her, but 
not far. She started to cry. “Just be- 
cause I want to know that .my child is 
your child, I’m sick! Just because I 
feel a normal, human emotion I’m 
delirious! ” 

He was very concerned. “You are 
delirious,” he said soothingly, “but 
don’t worry. Nothing’s going to hap- 
pen to you. . . You’ll be all right. . .” 

Tamal stopped crying and stood 
quietly. “I am all right,” she said em- 
phatically. She was quite calm. “And 
I’m not the only who who feels this 
way. Verna and the others are the 
same. And they know still others . . . 
who want to have exclusive possession 
of their joymate. . 



34 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



Daro repressed a shudder. As Chief 
Assistant Director of Security this was 
exactly the sort of thing he was sup- 
posed to prevent or eliminate. The re- 
sponsibility was his and it was accom- 
panied by the fullest authority. He was 
officially empowered to re-educate and 
control social misfits who might threat- 
en the safety of the state in any way 
he saw proper — up to and including 
execution in the gas chamber. 

He made it a point in his administra- 
tion to emphasize constantly that cure 
of personality deviations was synony- 
mous With complete elimination of force 
in handling the patient, but he was 
aware that in other regions force was 
used. People were put to death for 
socially disruptive ideas like Tamal’s; 
delirious or not, her ideas, if expressed, 
put her in great danger. 

Daro grasped Tamal’s shoulders. 
“For centuries we have known that 
concentrating the full sexual drive on 
only one joymate produces emotions of 
such intensity as to be injurious to so- 
ciety,” he lectured anxiously, watch- 
ing her face to see if she was being 
moved by his reason. “You don’t want 
to wear the white tunic of the suspect 
citizen — you don’t want to return to 
the fierce and brutal behavior of our 
cavemen ancestors,” he pleaded. 

“I want to love only you,” Tdmal 
said adamantly. She raised her chin. 
“For months I’ve been finding excuses 
for not seeing any other men ...” 

Daro winced. For some time he, too, 
had been neglecting Starra; but in his 
case he had simply been .working too 
hard. “You’re sick,” he temporized. 

Tamal glared at him. “That’s a lie,” 
she stated; “and you know it.” 

Daro tried to think. In a health con- 
servatory she would be in more danger 
than she was here. And she had said 
that others felt the same way. Even 
he had been careless of his obligations 
to Starra. He wondered guiltily if his 
own leniency in dealing with aberra- 
tions was responsible for the wave of 



chastity that was apparently sweeping 
the country. 

“Suppose we have dinner,” he sug- 
gested unhappily. Later she might feeT 
better and behave more reasonably. 

But later she was no more reason- 
able. When he was finally ready to 
leave she barred his way to the door, 
playfully but firmly. “See you tomor- 
row?” 

He tried to speak matter-of-factly. 
“Tamal, you know I’m taking Starra 
to that sound-effect symphony. . .” 

Tamal said coolly, “Then perhaps 
I’ll give Ferdi a break and go for a 
hike with him to some natural pre- 
serve. . . ” 

Daro frowned. Tamal had known 
Ferdi for a long time, and he didn’t 
approve of too lengthy connections for 
joymates; they had a tendency to grow 
unhealthily strong. He started to say 
something critical, then realized that 
he wanted to be Tamal’s joymate per- 
manently; he stopped in confusion. 

Tamal had been watching him hope- 
fully but after a moment she stood 
away from the door so that he could 
leave. 

He still hesitated. 

Tamal raised her eyes to him. “I 
wasn’t really going to ... . ” she sighed. 
“I just wanted to bother you. . . ” 

Daro kissed her and left, refusing to 
investigate the reason for his sudden 
surge of happiness when Tamal had 
said she woud not go hiking with Ferdi. 
Tamal’s danger was enough for him 
to worry about now; later he would 
think about his own. 

AT WORK the next day, neither 
Tamal’s irrationality nor his own 
made any more sense to Daro. He 
stared for minutes at the next name on 
his list of interviews for the day. He 
was already badly enough confused, 
and here was the one man who could 
always make him feel even more so. 

Rorki was a famous philosopher, 
and despite the disgrace of wearing 
the white tunic of the monogamous — 



CHANGE OF COLOR 



35 



and therefore suspect — citizen, he was 
as deeply admired by the public for his 
witty simplicity as he was feared by 
the government for his facile grasp of 
unconventional, and therefore unadmit- 
ted truths. And all too often in the 
past, Daro had found it very difficult 
to disagree with Rorki’s irreverent so- 
cial attitudes. 

Unfortunately, Rorki was constant- 
ly being accused of revolutionary activi- 
ties. So Daro, as Director of Security 
for the Fourth Region of the North 
American Continent, was constantly be- 
ing hounded by Milo, his energetic, ag- 
gressive assistant, to investigate Rorki’s 
behavior. 

Daro, unwillingly compelled to har- 
ass the philosopher, handled him as 
gingerly as possible and wished his 
over-zealous assistant would give them 
both some peace. Each time he finished 
interviewing Rorki, Daro felt like a 
patient arising from shock treatment, 
uncertainly attempting to find his way 
back into the world of the living and 
the sane. 

Now, guilt-troubled as he was, Daro 
knew he was in for a painful time. He 
sighed, then resolutely pressed the but- 
ton that would signal his secretary to 
send Rorki in. 

The door opened and Rorki entered, 
proud as a hero in his white tunic, dis- 
dainfully shrugging off the grasp of 
two of Daro’s guards. He came through 
the office chin high, and stood regally 
before Daro’s desk, like a prophet 
grandly awaiting his martyrdom. 

Daro dismissed the guards, shut the 
door, and contemplated the suspect. 
He made a gesture of resignment. 
“Please sit down, Citizen Rorki.” 

Rorki’s blue eyes darkened. He said 
ringingly, “I prefer to stand.” 

“Whichever you like.” Daro’s voice 
sounded more tired than patient. He 
endeavored to correct himself. “You 
were permitted to, and you did, Citi- 
zen, set the time and conditions of this 
interview yourself?” The man in white 
nodded in dignified silence. 



Daro kept his eyes on the notation 
on his desk and restrained his voice 
from changing in tone or intensity. 
“Then would you mind telling me,” he 
said, “why you required my guard es- 
cort to remove you forcibly from under 
your bed to keep the interview?” 

Rorki’s face cracked into a mis- 
chievous smile. He glanced around the 
room, selected the most comfortable 
chair, and moved it closer to Daro’s 
desk. He eyed Daro benignly. “Why 
do you think I forced your guard to 
force me here?” 

TT WAS not easy to be severe with 
A Rorki, but Daro was beginning to 
chill toward the man who was causing 
him so much trouble. “You are here 
as a political suspect. I ask the ques- 
tions; your duty is to answer them.” 

Rorki shrugged. “I crawled under 
the bed because I wanted to demon- 
strate — as graphically as I could — 
that I didn’t want to be interviewed 
again.” 

Daro said levelly, “Submission to in- 
terview by authority is compulsory, 
but time and conditions may be set by 
the suspect. I would have come to you 
at any time or place agreeable to you.” 

“It wasn’t the time or place I mind- 
ed,” Rorki said reasonably. “It was 
the ‘again’ ok it.” 

Daro, as fitted a psychiatrist, was 
equally reasonable. “How could we 
maintain order or peace,” he asked, “if 
the number of interviews the State was 
entitled to request from citizens was 
limited?” 

Rorki smiled even more charming- 
ly. “How stable or worthy an order,” 
he inquired gently, “would one be that 
was imposed on the citizenry so forci- 
bly that a constant brainwashing was 
necessary to maintain the status quo?” 
He spread his hands gracefully. “Such 
a government would not deserve to en- 
dure — and in fact would not, for 
long. . . ” 

“I will not point out,” Daro said 



36 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



slowly, “that your statement is 
treason — ” 

“ ‘Treason’ being the word used by 
the system in power to describe any 
change or improvement,” Rorki inter- 
rupted laconically. “The degree of 
‘treason’ varying with the degree of 
superiority of the proposed system over 
the extant one ...” 

“ — But I will remind you,” Daro 
continued, finding it more difficult 
every minute to remain detached, “I 
will remind you that our present gov- 
ernment has been in effect now for 
four hundred years.” He stared reso- 
lutely at Rorki’s irreverent gaze. “That 
this stability was maintained without 
unreasonable force or bloodshed should 
be of satisfaction to every citizen.” 

Rorki raised and lowered his heavy 
eyebrows cynically, and rearranged the 
folds of his white tunic. “Govern- 
ments,” he said flatly, “like men, must 
change constantly in order to remain 
stable. Balance defines not a fixed or 
permanent state, but rather constantly- 
varying responses to constantly-vary- 
ing stresses ...” He flicked the white 
drapery of his tunic over his thigh dis- 
tastefully. “And I believe your next 
revolution will result from this ...” 

“As a physician,” Daro said uncom- 
fortably, “I am aware that some who 
wear the white tunic of tire suspect 
citizen are victims of potency diffi- 
culties.” 

“Mine’s not,” Rorki said flatly. 
“Never had a potency difficulty in my 
life. At least,” he corrected himself, 
grinning, “no more than any other 
over-civilized creature . . . ”* 

For some reason Daro thought of 
Tamal. He swallowed. “Rorki, I have 
interviewed you many times, both con- 
sciously and* — with your permission — 
unconsciously. You have the customary 
brilliance of the creative thinker. 
Also,” he said regretfully, “you have 
the customary disregard for either the 
stability of the State or your own life.” 

Daro ran a hand through his hair, 
frowned 'at Rorki. “The State recog- 



nizes that men of your caliber are as 
valuable to it as they are dangerous; 
the State regards your type of citizen 
as a sort of socio-political vaccina- 
tion.” 

Rorki looked bored. 

“I,” Daro said carefully, “am re- 
quired to keep a constant check on such 
as you to see that you never become 
more dangerous than you are use- 
ful. . .” Daro repressed a sigh. 

Rorki allowed his eyes to stray to 
his wristw r atch. 

Daro went on doggedly, “If you 
have no potency difficulties, would 
you mind telling me why an other- 
wise civilized man would deliberately 
choose to follow a monogamous sex 
life?” 

Rorki looked at Daro coolly. “You 
never asked me about it before. . .” 

'TPAMAL’S odd behavior had made 
the subject important. Daro said, 
“You said yourself that putting devi- 
ates in white will become a trouble 
spot: that makes it fair for me to ask 
why.” 

Rorki raised his eyebrows and 
smiled wryly. “All the might of the 
State behind you to compel me to 
speak, and you follow such a genteel 
and finicky line ...” 

Daro said patiently, “We have long 
known that the use of force creates a 
Frankenstein martyr that must ulti- 
mately overthrow the government that 
uses the force.” 

“And that force possessed — but not 
used — is inevitably regarded as be- 
nign,” Rorki said cynically. “Which 
would purport that our cattle are in 
the hands of their benefactors right 
up to the moment of slaughter. . .” 

“Why,” Daro insisted quietly, “do 
you believe identifying clothing for 
deviates from a decent multiple sex 
life is a possible trouble spot?” 

“Because it’s humiliating,” Rorki 
said, with the first sign of heat he had 
manifested. “And when you humiliate 
men they become dangerous. . .” 



CHANGE OF COLOR 



37 



Daro smiled; for the first time he 
had actually got beneath Rorki’s dur- 
able poise; then Rorki did not regard 
his being compelled to wear white with 
the equanimity he pretended. That 
meant Rorki was not entirely insensi- 
tive to what his fellow men thought of 
him. “But you voluntarily registered 
to wear it,” he told Rorki. “You were 
not turned in by anyone... If you 
feel the way you say, why would you 
have done that?” 

“Because this,” Rorki flicked a dis- 
dainful finger at a fold of tunic, “as 
humiliating as it is, is less shameful 
than yours ...” 

Daro bore the older man’s accusing 
glare. “Isn’t it a little ridiculous to say 
that I and the majority of civilized 
mankind are behaving shamefully?” 
He added gently, “When it’s obvious- 
ly you who are "behaving irrationally?” 
“Majorities have not always been 
right. Some top men wear white...” 
“But majorities move the group ...” 
“Not always.” The philosopher 
leaned back in his chair comfortably. 
“Not me.” 

“No.” Daro looked at him thought- 
fully. “Rorki, you have been accused 
of being involved in a plot to over- 
throw the government.” 

“When haven’t I?” the older man 
demanded disgustedly. 

“You deny it?” 

“Give me any examination you like,” 
Rorki said. “Let’s get this over. Hyp- 
nosis, narcosis or look deep down into 
my blue, blue eyes.” 

He was too willing. Daro rose. 
“Thank you for coming; I don’t think 
it will be necessary ...” 

Rorki stood up, grinning, as if at 
the memory of how he had been 
brought. Then his face grew stern. 
“This government won’t be overthrown 
by me, or any other man with a plot,” 
he prophesied grimly. “It will be over- 
thrown when more people don’t be- 
lieve in it than believe in it — that 
majerity you spoke of.” He raised his 
heavy eyebrows. “Only incumbent 



governments rarely recognize, or notice 
a new majority until they are no long- 
er incumbent. . .” 

jr\ARO WATCHED Rorki swagger 
out of his attractive but window- 
less office. Windowless not so that 
helpless citizens in the power of the 
State could not escape, or make their 
anguish heard — but windowless at 
Daro’s orders so that eager fanatics 
could not fling themselves joyfully out 
a window, and into martyrdoms that 
might endanger the State. 

He frowned, sighed, and marked 
Rorki’s interview for early recall. His 
assistant Milo would disapprove of his 
letting Rorki go so easily; but after 
last night with Tamal, Rorki’s cynical 
statement about the people resembling 
cattle in their dependency on the State 
was sharp enough to make Daro very 
uncomfortable! Before he could de- 
fend the State effectively he would 
have to deal with his own feelings of 
guilt. That was probably the most im- 
portant item on his agenda. 

He completed as much as he could of 
that agenda and then, after dinner, 
headed for Starra’s dwelling. His im- 
balance stemmed from being too fond 
of Tamal and he had always before 
found that nothing reduced a man’s 
unhealthy fondness for one female like 
a close and friendly association with 
another female. 

It was essential for all good citizens 
to maintain their balance; the citi- 
zen’s balance was the State’s stability. 
It was particularly important, Daro 
realized, for himself — both as psychia- 
trist and as Chief Assistant Director 
of Security. 

With genuine approval, and a grow- 
ing hope of relief from his present ten- 
sion, Daro surveyed Starra’s willowy, 
dark loveliness. Starra was a nutrition- 
ist for one of the large health conserva- 
tories; but happily — unlike Tamal— 
she had not the slightest interest in 
food. 

Starra’s burning interest was tone 



38 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



poems created out of wordless, music- 
less sounds, and though Daro had of- 
ten wondered in the past if he was ar- 
tistically deficient, he was so incapable 
of appreciating the symphonies, to- 
night it was a relief to be required 
only to escort Starra to the affair. 

He kissed her smooth, cool hand 
lightly as a token of his approval. Her 
tunic was of some diaphanous dark 
blue stuff over a lighter, almost lumi- 
nous blue underdress. 

She was actually, he told himself, 
a far more beautiful and more exotic 
specimen of feminity than Tamal. His 
detachment faded as he was unable to 
escape noticing that he did not have 
the slightest desire to touch Starra. 

Troubled, he put Starra in his air- 
craft and flew to the Allfolks Theater, 
where the symphony was being held. 
He was so occupied pondering his dif- 
ficulties the three-hour show passed all 
too quickly. 

QTARRA did not comment on his 
^preoccupation until he brought her 
back to her quarters. He walked with 
her to the elevator and said goodnight. 

Starra would not have it. “Come up 
with me and tuck me in,” she insisted 
cosily; “you haven’t noticed me all 
evening.” 

Daro swallowed. “I’ve had a ver,y 
hard day, Starra.” He said hastily, 
“The entertainment helped — but I’m 
still tired.” 

Starra raised eagle-proud eyebrows. 
“If you don’t want to ... ” She 
shrugged. 

“I would,” Daro said, with what his 
own ear told him was too much em- 
phasis. “But your roommate. . . We 
hadn’t plaimed to. . .” 

Starra looked at him coldly. “Marta 
is on a weekend with one of her three 
regular joymates.” She said meaning- 
fully, “I believe I’m your only other 
joymate than some little research-girl 
you once mentioned. . . And I’ve bare- 
ly seen you for weeks ...” Her love- 
ly features were expressionless. “You 



know, Daro, for a security worker 
your behavior is rather question- 
able ...” 

Daro’s flowing green tunic felt sud- 
denly tight and hot. He disliked being 
browbeaten into making love to Starra 
— even more than he had disliked Ta- 
mal’s insistence that he give Starra up. 
But he was compelled to acknowledge 
the truth and justice of Starra’s accusa- 
tion. 

Submissively he followed Starra into 
the elevator and to her luxurious quar- 
ters high in the tower portion of her 
building. 

He sat uncomfortably on the edge 
of her divan and toyed with her now- 
loosened gauzy tunic. She was utter- 
ly lovely, and she left him utterly cold. 

She leaned toward him and kissed 
him passionately. “My Daro,” she mur- 
mured. “A little foolish, but very 
handsome ...” 

Miserably he tried to work up some 
enthusiasm; it was absolutely impossi- 
ble. “I — I’m sorry,” he stammered. 
“Starra, I’m afraid I don’t feel too 
well ...” 

Starra sat up suddenly and looked 
at him. “You were well until a mo- 
ment ago ...” Her eyes were very 
narrow. 

He got up and ran spread fingers 
hastily through hair she had dishev- 
elled. “I’ll get in touch with you as 
soon as I feel better,” he lied. He gave 
Starra a troubled nod and left; he 
knew he never wanted to see her 
again. 

In his office, a couple of days lat- 
er Daro wondered if he was really ill. 
He had stayed away from everyone 
and made every effort to exercise his 
love for Tamal but nothing had 
helped. It was agony to remain away 
from her — but downfall, he knew, to 
go to her. 

His next interview was one Milo 
thought urgent and essential. Milo was 
supposed to screen out individuals 
with minor complaints; but for the 
last few days he had taken to insist- 



CHANGE OF COLOR 



39 



ing that Daro see to all sorts of small 
matters, always for females. Daro 
pressed the button and the citizen en- 
tered. 

This one was even more beautiful 
than any of the others had been. 
Dressed in the briefest of shell pink 
tunics the girl crossed the office with 
the dainty poise of a tame deer, and 
drew the chair closest to Daro’s desk 
closer still. Dark lashes were so long 
that when she opened her eyes wide, 
as she was now doing, they brushed her 
graceful brows. 

Daro listened patiently to her story 
of how she suspected one of her co- 
workers at the mill of sabotaging pro- 
duction in order to take over the 
present forewoman’s job. He made 
notes of her evidence, told her he 
would look into it, and rose to termi- 
nate the visit. 

She rose, too, and composedly took 
the one step necessary to bring them 
together; however instead of shaking 
hands, as he had supposed her inten- 
tion to be, she embraced him enthu- 
siastically. 

STEPPING back after a moment she 

replaced an amber curl back to its 
cluster on top of her head and surveyed 
him smilingly. “I know that was rather 
forward of me, Director, but I felt like 
it. And you know the saying — ” 

Taken by surprise, Daro had not had 
presence of mind to pretend to a pleas- 
ure he did not feel; but the girl didn’t 
seem to be angry. “Frustrate the im- 
pulse and decimate the State,” he 
quoted automatically. Since birth-con- 
trol was already under the most rigid 
enforcement, the saying referred to the 
fact that since sexual frustration was 
the cause of tension, and tension the 
cause of destructive behavior, frustra- 
tration bred war — which did, in fact, 
decimate the State. 

“Uh — ” Daro glanced hastily down 
at his interview-list for her name, “uh 
— Carlotta. You’re a very pretty girl, 
and I’m very complimented; and if I 



didn’t have rather a full schedule of 
joymates — ” He broke off and took 
a breath. She was already out of the 
office; his relief was shortlived when 
he recalled the look of satisfaction on 
her face as she left. 

Alone in his office Daro told his 
secretary to hold up his interviews. 
He needed to think, to know what was 
happening to him. His discomfort over 
his crime of monogamy had so far 
been merely psychological; it it were 
uncovered it would become very real. 

He was suddenly aware of why Milo 
had been sending in all the gorgeous 
female complainants, no matter how 
small their problems Milo was testing 
him; that meant he was already sus- 
pect. 

His buzzer sounded, his secretary 
wanted him. Since he had given orders 
he was not to be disturbed he knew 
what that meant. Dully, he spoke into 
the intercom. “Yes.” 

“Chief Assistant Milo to see you, 
Citizen.” Her voice was regretful. 
“Now.” 

Daro snapped off the sound. The 
girl had said Chief Assistant Milo; this 
meant that Milo had been all ready to 
act as soon as his evidence was com- 
plete, was already in charge. 

He glanced around the office. His 
attractive windowless office, which 
Daro had sentimentally thought of as 
a refuge for the poor, misguided fana- 
tics it was his job to control; had sud- 
denly become a trap. 

He searched the room for something 
he might use to defend himself. For 
centuries, the mere possession of a 
dangerous weapon had been sufficient 
to mark a person as possessing ten- 
dencies of such violence as to render 
them unfit for living. There was noth- 
ing. 

Daro’s mouth twisted bitterly. Un- 
less he hoped to defend himself by 
flinging a paperweight, his own guard 
would soon be forcing their way into 
his office to arrest him; there was noth- 



40 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



ing he could do. He pressed the door 
release to admit Milo. 

Milo entered flanked by four of the 
guard. He came up to Daro sneering 
quietly. “Citizen, you have been ac- 
cused of monogamous behaviour. You, 
of all men, know the threat this con- 
stitutes to the State. Can you clear 
yourself?” 

Daro studied Milo, his heart acceler- 
ating despite his recognition that the 
inevitable should not properly occasion 
excitement. His assistant looked taller 
than he ever had before. 

The guard and Milo all stood be- 
tween Daro and the door; there was no 
slightest chance for escape. He tem- 
porized. “Since I have apparently been 
removed from office without trial, isn’t 
it a bit late to be authenticating the 
veracity of the accusation?” 

7S/fILO BALLED his hands into 
■*■*•*■ fists, took a step toward Daro. 
“Answer the question,” he ordered. 
“You have been removed from office — 
belatedly — as a result of your danger- 
ous leniency to deviates. I am now at- 
tempting to give you fair opportunity 
to prove that you do not deserve to 
wear the white tunic.” 

Horrified, Daro looked in the direc- 
tion Milo had nodded, toward one of 
the guards in the rear. Over the guatd’s 
arm was flung something white. Sickly, 
Daro said, “Milo, you know how hard 
I’ve worked for the State — ” 

“Answer the question,” Milo inter- 
rupted roughly. “Name at least two 
females who are your joy prates at the 
present time ...” 

Daro wet his lips. “Tamal,” he 
stalled. 

“And?” 

“And — Starra.” 

Milo smiled in triumph. “That is the 
name of the female who accuses you of 
monogamy!” He raised his right hand, 
forefinger pointing upward like a poli- 
tical demagogue claiming heavenly 
cooperation, then lowered it aimed at 
Daro. “Seize him, guards!” 



Daro plunged toward the four men. 
He landed several furious blows among 
them but it was of no use. In seconds 
the guard held him securely. 

Milo walked to where the white gar- 
ment had fallen to the floor when the 
scuffle began. He picked it up and 
came around and stood in front of 
Daro. 

Daro struggled, raging with humilia- 
tion. “You’d better kill me, Milo! I 
won’t wear it!” 

“You’ll wear the white,” Milo said, 
breathing heavily, though he had 
stayed out of the fracas. “I’ve learned 
enough of your techniques to know 
the avoidance of violence is safer — for 
me.” He studied Daro for a moment 
and then grasped the green tunic he 
wore. It w r as a sturdily constructed 
garment and it took both his hands 
and all his strength; but finally he suc- 
ceeded in first rending and then shred- 
ding it, until the tunic lay in pieces on 
the floor and Daro stood stripped be- 
fore him. 

While Milo yanked at his tunic, 
Daro attempted to reason with him- 
self. He was no longer an official of 
the State, but he was supposedly still 
a psychiatrist; as such he should have 
enough balance to realize that disgrace 
is less dreadful than death. He clung 
to the fact that the brilliant Rorki had 
thought so . . . 

By the time Milo had finished his 
shredding and handed Daro the white 
tunic, Daro had summoned up enough 
reason and resignation to put it on, 
silently. 

“And remember,” Milo warned grim- 
ly, “this is your warning. You’ll sleep 
in the gas chamber if you’re ever caught 
in public in anything but white. . 

Daro got out of the building quickly, 
as stabbed by the pitying avoidance of 
friends’ faces as he was irritated by 
the jeers of unknown detractors. 

He wandered through the busy 
streets, trying to accustom himself to 
the disapproval and contempt that the 



CHANGE OF COLOR 



41 



white garment of the suspect citizen 
automatically attracted. 

Centuries ago, the government had 
ordained that deviates from social pro- 
priety would both be deterred and 
made less dangerous if they were 
readily identifiable. The ancient color 
of chastity no longer denoted the same 
condition, but monogamy was now con- 
sidered chastity, was now not only dis- 
reputable, but actually a crime against 
the State. 

Daro had always thought that since 
the punishment prevented further vio- 
lence, it was a rather mild way for the 
State to protect itself. As he passed 
through the streets constantly prodded 
and stung by the glances he received, 
he realized how wrong he had been. 
He wondered how men of Rorki’s sensi- 
tivity could stand it, and walked fast- 
er. 

A PARK area offered a temporary 
hiding place from his disgrace. He 
sat down on the first bench he came 
to. When someone sat down on the 
other end of the bench, a figure wear- 
ing white, Daro realized that uncon- 
sciously he had headed for a place 
known to be frequented by social out- 
casts; he was not even too surprised 
to find that his benchmate was Rorki. 

Rorki’s face, which might have been 
expected to show some satisfaction at 
Daro’s downfall, did not look happy. 
He gestured at Daro’s garment. “I 
rather thought you’d come here ...” 

“You heard quickly...” Daro con- 
sidered idly how the efficiency of com- 
munication expedited all human activi- 
ties. Movements that in centuries gone 
by had taken years now were consum- 
mated in days. 

Rorki frowned. “I was hoping I 
hadn’t understood correctly.” 

“Thanks. . .” 

Rorki said succinctly, “It’s my own 
health I’m interested in.” 

Daro looked at him thoughtfully. 
“You don’t think my successor will be 
the most benign of administrators?” 



Rorki held his nose and jerked his 
head back, violently. 

“Then,” Daro said, trying to cal- 
culate how fast you could engineer a 
revolution, “let’s do something about 
it...” 

Rorki looked aghast. “I’m a philoso- 
pher! ” 

“You can still do something,” Daro 
encouraged. 

“And get put to beddy bye in the 
gas chamber!” 

“Maybe not.” Daro touched his 
tunic, said, “I’ve been doing quite a 
bit of thinking about this in the last 
hour. And about some things you said 
about majorities being there before we 
know they’re there. And,” he finished, 
“about some things my joymate said 
about others preferring to have only 
one fjoymate. . . ” 

Rorki eyed him suspiciously, didn’t 
speak. 

Daro studied Rorki intently. “Tell 
me honestly; why did you really volun- 
tarily don the white?” 

“My joymate made me,” the older 
man confessed gloomily. 

Daro restrained his grin. “In a way, 
so did mine,” he consoled. He inter- 
rupted Rorki’s mournful revery. “As 
a philosopher, what do you think would 
happen if it became known that some 
women are so loved that their men 
men will bear disgrace for the privilege 
of loving these women exclusively. Not 
all women,” Daro emphasized. “Just 
the joymates of wearers of white are 
so loved ...” 

Rorki frowned at him for a second. 
“■Why they’d all want — ” He broke off 
and started to laugh. When he quieted 
down his bright eyes were already cal- 
culating. “We’ll get some publicity. . . 
We’ll go on a telenews program and 
confess our sinful singular devotion 
to the whole world ...” 

Daro shook his head. “Not too fast. 
If we do it that way, we may get quick- 
er results; but we’re also liable to get 
gassed. I don’t want to wind up with 



42 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



jus' a statue in my honor from the 
new government ...” 

Rorki raised a thoughtful eyebrow. 
“Then how?” 

Daro looked gaugingly at the un- 
changing sky. “You know others who 
wear white?” 

“They’re all I do know,” Rorki 
snorted. “Practically everybody with 
any brains — or sensitivity — or whose 
joymate has any brains or sensitivity.” 
he corrected himself honestly, “winds 
up in white ...” 

Daro smiled wryly.' “Thanks.” He 
insisted, though, “And you say they’re 
influential — important men?” 

“So what?” Rorki shrugged. “We’re 
still a minority; a very small minori- 
ty. . . ” 

“Maybe not,” Daro countered. He 
took a long, deep breath and exhaled 
slowly. ' “Maybe,” he said - slowly, 
“we’re already a majority and we just 
don’t know it. So,” he said more brisk- 
ly, “tell all the wearers of white you 
know to point out to their joymates 
how few women are so loved that their 
men will bear disgrace for the privi- 
lege of loving them exclusively. . . ” 

Rorki, excited, nodded eagerly. “Can 
do.” 

“And tell them,” Daro added, grin- 
ning, “that under no circumstances 
should they let this fact leak out J:o 
women whose joymates do not wear 
white. It might hurt those women’s 
feelings ...” 

|^YATURE took its course. For the 

' first few weeks the rush of volun- 
tary dormers of white were* mostly in 
the Fourth Region of the North Ameri- 
can Continent. 

The government knew from the very- 
beginning that something strange was 
going on, but there was obviously noth- 
ing to fear or be alarmed about. It 
was simply that more and more citizens 
came down to the Security Directorates 
and voluntarily signed up to wear the 
white tunic of the sexual deviate. It 
was peculair — as peculiar as it would 



have been for a lot of men to come 
down and demand to be put in the 
gas chamber, and about equally as 
threatening. 

After the first few days, the lines 
to sign up were so long that citizens 
just started wearing white without 
bothering to declare it. By that time 
the movement had spread to other re- 
gions and other continents. 

And by the time the government 
realized that the movement was actual- 
ly dangerous to it, there were so many 
more men wearing white than in colors 
that it dared not act. 

It was the most peaceful revolution 
in several thousand years of civiliza- 
tion — and revolutions. 

When it was all over Daro sat, some 
weeks later, in the same office that 
had been his under the previous govern- 
ment. That was not odd; the turnover 
in administrative positions had been 
practically zero, since actually the gov- 
ernment had not changed. 

When the heads of government saw 
what the people had done they simply 
ruled that only wearers of white were 
proper citizens and entitled to hold 
government positions — and went out 
and bought themselves a white tunic. 

Daro relaxed in his chair, at his 
desk, contentedly listening to Rorki ex- 
plaining in some detail exactly what 
had happened to the government. He 
was happily aware of Milo, in a not 
too distant office, listening submissive- 
ly to the complaints of aggrieved citi- 
zens and even more happily aware of 
Tamal, now legally able to procure and 
cook his food for him, Daro, exclusive- 
ly- 

Rorki looked at him, his blue eyes 
dark with intensity. “You must under- 
stand,” he said emphatically, “all this 
proves nothing. . . Only that one kind 
of tyranny is over . . . There will mere- 
ly be a brief intermission of peace and 
justice and the world will then move, 
imperceptibly but inexorably, on to the 
next form of tyranny. . .” 



CHANGE OF COLOR 



43 



r T , HE SIGNAL from Daro’s secretary 
interrupted them and Daro switched 
on the speaker. 

The girl’s voice was embarrassed. 
“Director Daro, there are sounds of a 
struggle going on in your assistant’s of- 
fice. I don’t know just what to do. . .” 
“Sometimes complaining citizens get 
pretty worked up,” Daro reminded her 
crisply. “Send in the guard — Milo’s 
visitor may be harming him.” 

There was a silence as the girl hesi- 
tated. “Well — but the visitor is a girl. 
A very small girl.” She sounded doubt- 
ful. “I don’t know whether it’s 
right. . . ” 

Daro frowned at the speaker. “Corta, 
what’s eating you? Why don’t you 
want to help Milo if he’s in trouble?” 
There was a bubbling sound from 
the intercom and then Corta gained 
control of herself. “I think the girl is 
Milo’s joymate. . . ” 

Daro stopped short, then grinned to 
himself. “Perhaps,” he said into the 
speaker, “you should have them 
brought in here. . . ” 

A moment later Milo and a small, 
dark haired girl entered Daro’s office, 
both of them flushed and dishevelled. 

Daro asked suavely, “What’s the 
difficulty, Milo?” 



Milo waved his hand awkwardly. “A 
trifle, Director; I don’t want to bother 
you with it.” He put his arm around the 
girl, said quietingly, “We’ll take care 
of it ourselves — ” 

The girl wrenched violently away 
from him. “Oh, no we won’t!” Her 
eyes flashed. “I want that man forbid- 
den to wear the white tunic,” she said, 
dramatically pointing at Milo. “He 
doesn’t deserve to wear it! He’s still 
seeing another joymate!” 

Daro eyed Milo lingeringly. Finally, 
he said, “Perhaps you’re right, Milo. 
Perhaps you had better take care of 
this yourself ...” 

Very red and silent, Milo escorted 
the angry girl from the room. 

Alone with Rorki again, Daro smiled. 
“I guess you’re right, too, Rorki ...” 

Rorki raised his eyebrows question- 
ingly. The little drama had distracted 
him from the point he had been mak- 
ing. 

“About this being just a brief in- 
termission of peace between tyrannies,” 
Daro reminded him, grinning more 
broadly. He gestured toward the door 
through which Milo and his joymate 
had just left. “And from the looks of 
things, the intermission is already 
over . . . . ” 




The Strangest Veyege 
Ever Taken! 



What was the secret of the f S ' 

starship which would take 

these people to a new world, L -.'n x ».• n | x- *•.£: 

but a world from which they F ’ > „ ' 

could never return? Why | ' v ' ;/C : - ‘c; f. ’-f 

were they all listed as 

DEAD ON DEPARTURE 

This gripping Novelet by MILTON LESSER 
leads off the New, Pocket-Sized, October 

FUTURE SCIENCE FICTION 



VOTING MACHINE 

This election, Foster figured, was really sewed up tight. 
A machine which would not accept the votes of “unstable” 
persons couldn't tell why any given voter was upset — 
couldn’t tell a crackpot from a member of the indignant 
and outraged opposition . . . 



by Jim Harmogi 

illustrated by Paul Orban 

ARL FOSTER stood before the 
dirty window, chewing a thin 
cigar and looking into the busy, 
narrow street two floors below him. 
His attention was on the undersized 
building, a half block away, that was 
serving as a polling place this year. He 
looked away from the unhandsomely 
stained glass to his own thick wrist. 

Six o’clock, his Chrono indicated. It, 
did not have to tell him that this was 
the afternoon before Election Day, 
1962, although it did. His eyes left the 
face of the luminous dial, and saw that 
his silk French cuff had collected some 
of the dust and grime of this elevated 
train part of the city. It was all dust 
and dirt, he thought — especially the 
people. But they could vote; he nevfir 
forgot that. 

Foster buried his fingers into the soft 
tobacco of the Havana. His mouth 
twisted, and he blinked away the sting 
from his eyes; Election Day always 
rubbed his soul the wrong \vay. They 
were going to decide whether he, his 
party, and his candidate were going to 
stay in power, and they didn’t know 
what they were doing. Their vote de- 
pended on how they felt on waking up ; 
how the toothpaste tasted ; and whether 
, the bacon was burned. The voters 
didn’t know a thing about government, 
or what was good for them; they didn’t 
realize that an administration which 



took bribes and allowed gambling 
saved them money on taxes. 

They were just human monkey- 
wrenches stumbling around the delicate 
workings of a useful machine, Foster 
thought. Individually, they were little 
or nothing, but he could guide them 
away from the dust and dirt if they 
would only let him. Yet they continued 
to make their same mistakes, and every 
election day Foster had to count on 
chance, and the luck he could make 
himself. He wished again that he could 
deprive them of the right to make mis- 
takes. 

Fie sighed, coughed cigar smoke, 
brushed at his eyes with a heavy hand, 
and sat down on the edge of the brass 
bed, covered with a faded pink bed- 
spread; it creaked ominously and in- 
testinally. He ground the cigar to 
shredded brown leaves in the tray on 
the bedside table, staring at the black 
phone all the time. Its grimy mouth- 
piece represented all the world’s germs 
to him, j.ust them, and he no longer felt 
lucky about finding a boardinghouse 
room with a private phone. The in- 
strument seemed sullen and unfriendly. 

Foster chuckled deep inside. He was 
thinking too much about thinking 
machines. With only a slight twinge of 
unacceptance, he picked up the phone 
and put it to his ear. 




44 



45 




He picked a shred of sweet tobacco 
from his lip, and forced a blunt finger 
into a hole in the dial. Carefully, he 
dialed an unlisted number. He listened 
to the rings echo, and traced what was 
happening with his mind. The party 
worker cruising a few blocks away 
would pick up the car’s Moblephone; 
now he would ' be putting the headset 
against a second Moblephone, mouth to 
receiver. They had to be careful of 
wire-tappings. But it was not happen- 
ing according to schedule; leaning for- 
ward in concern, Foster wondered if 
he’d better break the connection, and 
try — 

‘■'Hello,” the voice said in his ear. 

TpOSTER said easily, “Hello, Ernie; 

somebody’s slow on this telephone 
deal. You and the boy in the car had 
better speed it up. I may need to con- 
tact you fast.” 

“I’m afraid I was busy, Mr. Foster.” 
Honest , thought Foster; he liked that, 



to a degree. “Are you all set there?” 
Ernie continued. 

“Okay I guess; nothing much to see 
yet. I thought they might be scouting 
around, picking out spots for last min- 
ute propaganda, and that kind of thing. 
Don’t seem like it, I’ve been wondering 
why I’m here myself.” 

“I’m sure you had a good reason,” 
Ernie said doubtfully. 

Foster felt the tobacco-taste in his 
mouth. 

“Sure Kid, you can bet on it,” Foster 
said, fishing a cigar out of his breast 
pocket. “I like to keep my eye on the 
voters and the opposition all the time. 
Besides I’m not any good around head- 
quarters Election Day — remember that 
reporter I slugged? No, I guess that 
was before you came to us. Anyway, 
here, I can watch things right. The 
voters and the opposition— you can't 
trust either of them; remember that, 
Ernie.” 

“Say, Kid,” Foster said as he drew 



46 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



the first breath of heavy tobacco, “I 
haven’t seen a paper since morn- 
ing. . 

“Would you like me to bring you 
over the late editions?” the young man 
asked as Foster finished drawing the 
cigar alight. 

“No, no, Kid, just read me some. 
Give me a picture, you know what I 
mean?” 

“Right. I’ve got the papers here on 
the desk. Just a second, Mr. Foster.” 
It wasn’t even a second. “Here they 
are. Hmm, well, the dominant factor 
would seem . . . That is, the most im- 
portant one is Major Fitzgerald’s 
paper.” 

“Damned old fool,” Foster snorted 
smoke. “He couldn’t be right if he 
tried.” 

“There’s a big color-cartoon on the 
front page. It shows a monstrous robot, 
with a head like the new voting-ma- 
chines, leading a little man in chains 
labeled “Mr. Citizen”. There’s a fat 
politico labelled as our party, holding 
his sides and laughing at the sight. It’s 
labelled ‘The Man Who Sold his Birth- 
right To A Mess o] Pots-and-Pans’ 

Fie blew smoke into the phone’s 
mouthpiece. “How else does the Major 
stack it?” 

The young man cleared his throat 
before continuing. “The lead story, 
says just what the cartoon does: that 
by allowing the voting-machine to 
judge who is psychologically fit to vote, 
and even to cast a deciding vote in case 
of ties, we are sacrificing our freedoms. 
The rest of the front page is devoted to 
some pretty obvious but well-timed re- 
leases about the Alaska plane crash, 
auto accidents, and a train derailment.” 

COSTER’S mouth twisted and he 

blinked his eyes. “Old fool! We been 
using voting-machines since 1892 — 
they started using them in New York 
then — and we been using lie-detectors 
since 1895, and the electronic calcu- 
lators since 1946. So what’s wrong with 
combining them in 1962 to produce an 



accurate way to weed out the morons 
and the — the temporarily insane? 
Don’t the constitution deny the right to 
vote to the feeble-minded? Cripes, with 
the way everybody and his brother are 
going off their rockers these days, the 
public has a right to some protection 
from the loonies.” 

Ernie laughed gently. “You don’t 
have to convince me, Mr. Foster.” 

His big hand clenched around the 
phone. “I’ll convince you anytime I 
like, Ernie; understand?” 

“Yes, Mr. Foster,” Ernie said mild- 
ly- 

Foster frowned. What was he trying 
to prove? The kid knew he was boss. 
“All right, Ernie; what do the other 
papers say.” 

“Well,” Ernie’s voice continued as 
before the interruption, “The Ran- 
dolf papers are on our side, of course. 
They don’t make an issue of it on the 
front page, but there’s several little 
things through the paper... Just a 
minute, Mr. Foster, I’m leafing through 
it now. Yeah, on page three there’s a 
story about one of those new Mechano- 
Pup toys leading a 4-year-old boy out 
of his burning home. 

“Let me get over to the features, now 
— there’s several things there. The 
Woman’s Page columnist compares the 
right to let the voting-machines cast a 
deciding vote, in case of ties, for the 
candidate with the most stable sup- 
porters to wornen’s suffrage— -the, ah, 
‘emancipation of our faithful slaves’. 
The editorial writer has about the same 
thing to say. Hey, I know him — that’s 
Tom Celtnek — good man. Yeah, and 
finally Wild Bill Starr has his life saved 
by a robot in the comic strips. Most of 
the other papers stack up with either 
the Major or the Randolf chain. 
Want me to read you those, sir?” 

Foster didn’t have to ask how the 
papers felt about the candidates; party 
lines were too clearly drawn. The big 
question this year was not how the 
voters would vote, but which votes 
would be accepted as sane, reasonable 



VOTING MACHINE 



47 , 



decisions. “No, I guess that stacks it, 
Ernie. You got things ready for the big 
day?” 

“Sure,” said Ernie; “Helen’s got all 
the women organized.” 

“They know what they’re to do?” 

“Yes, they know they’re supposed to 
make all of our voters we can round 
up lie down for five or ten minutes and 
drink a cup of tea before going on to 
the polls. That ‘tea’ part is going to be 
hard to do in this part of town; ninety 
proof or anti-freeze would make it 
easier. I know you’ve got a good reason 
for this, Mr. Foster, but I don’t know 
what that reason is.” 

Foster smiled, and let smoke drool 
out of his mouth. Pretty smart kid — * 
college education and everything — but 
Carl Foster could still tell him plenty. 
“I guess I can tell you, Ernie. I’ve got 
a lot of brains — best money could buy. 
They tell me that these voting-machines 
work by layers; they test the first level 
and if it seems normal, they won’t 
probe below it. Of course, my experts 
may be wrong, but I’m betting they’re 
right. They also tell me that if the 
voter is calm, untroubled, relaxed, the 
machines .will pass him right then; 
they’re looking for wild-eyed crackpots. 
That’s one of the reasons we supported 
the machines. The ‘outs’ always feel 
more fanatical than the ‘ins’, and we’re 
the ‘ins’. One of the things that’s going 
to keep us in, is calming down our 
people with that cup of tea. Under- 
stand?” 

“You’re smart, Mr. Foster,” the 
younger man said, and there wasn’t any 
doubt he meant it. 

“Just remember that, Ernie, and 
you’ll go a long way,” Foster told him, 
“I’m hanging up, Kid; got to get to 
sleep so I can start off early tomor- 
row.” He slammed the receiver down 
immediately, and swung his feet up on 
the bed. 

Absently, he wiped his mouth with a 
display-handkerchief; no telling about 
that phone, he thought. He wiggled his 
toes out of the shoes, and kicked the 



oxfords lightly off the faded bedspread. 
Shutting his eyes, he laid back into the 
lumpy softness of the bed. He wasn’t 
sleepy, but he had to get to sleep so he 
could wake up before the polls opened. 
Deliberately, he let the tension go out 
of his body and breathed deeply. 

In seconds, he was asleep. 

IS FAVORITE suit would be as 
wrinkled as a piece of burlap, 
Foster thought first on waking to the 
filtered morning light. Next he became 
aware of the uneven resilience beneath 
him, and the sore tickle in his throat, 
simultaneously. Environment and its 
effect. With a grunt, he got to a sitting 
position on the bed; he ran his fingers 
through his hair and decided to gargle 
first. As he put his stocking feet on the 
cold floor, the phone rang. 

He grabbed up the receiver. “Mr. 
Foster — ” Ernie began. 

“Call me back,” Foster said. 

As he started to lower the phone, he 
heard Ernie say, “This is important.” 
The kid knew when to contradict 
him. It had to be important. “Okay,” 
he said. 

Foster sat down on the bed, and 
slapped his breastpocket for a cigar, 
finding he was out. He listened. 

“They’re going us one better,” 
Ernie’s voice said. “They’re using nar- 
cotics. Dope.” 

Foster let that one sink into his early 
morning brain. “Dope,” he said after a 
second. “You mean they’re shooting 
their votes full of ‘H’?” 

“Nothing like that yet. We found 
out that they’re putting a mild sedative 
in the tea they’re giving out.” 

Foster laughed shortly. “Copping our 
idea and going us one better, huh? 
Well, if they’re going to send sleep- 
walkers to the polls, we’ll send zom- 
bies ! Get some morphine over to party 
headquarters; have the Health Depart- 
ment cover it up as innoculations 
against the Plague or something.” 
“Pneumonic vaccinations coming up. 
Goodbye, Mr, Foster.” 




48 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



Foster dropped the phone back in its 
cradle and laughed again. When the 
Master Computer V-49 examined the 
results for the party voters in this city, 
it would think it had come across a new 
standard of mental stability. 

He started for the bathroom, but 
stopped by the brown suitcase on the 
chair. He snapped it open, rummaged 
through it, and brought a tinfoil pack- 
age of cigars out. With the pack in his 
coat pocket, he continued towards the 
door, conscious of the tickle in his 
throat. 

T HE TELEPHONE rang again as he 
stood by the window, watching the 
twisting lines going and coming from 
the polling-place a few shadowed door- 
ways down the street. Foster marched 
across the room, and ground out the 
fire in half a cigar, as he picked up the 
phone with his free hand. “Ernie?” he 
asked. 

“More trouble, Mr. Foster,” Ernie 
told him. 

“All right, Ernie. Get to it.” 

“Every mainliner in town is after a 
free shot, and most are coming back for 
seconds. The world’s got around some 
how; if we refuse them, they’re going 
to give us trouble.” 

Foster scratched his beard-rough 
jaw. “I can’t see anyway around it, 
Ernie. If you give one an overdose and 
let him die, it might scare off the 
others; but it would cause 'an investi- 
gation, too. Let it ride. Say, are the 
boys on the other side following our 
lead on this one?” 

There was a silence from the other 
end of the line. “No, Mr. Foster; the 
sedative was as far as they would go. 
But our stoolies say it’s because they 
really don’t think they can fool the 
machines with the doped condition.” 
“They’re just scared to go all the 
way and are alibing themselves ahead 
of time. They’ll find out when that 
V-49 gadget in Washington gives the 
final results; our boys in the other 



cities are smart, too.” Foster paused 
and thought a moment, the scent of 
Havana tobacco drifting to him. 
“Ernie, the polls will be closed in a 
couple of hours, and they’ll start show- 
ing the results on teevee. Send Helen 
over to keep me company ; I don’t like 
being by myself all night.” 

A very long silence came out of the 
phone, shadowed with the faint crackle 
of line static. “Helen’s living at my 
place now, you know, Mr. Foster,” 
Ernie’s tight voice suddenly gushed. 

Foster’s big hand closed around the 
phone; his head felt hot. The Kid was 
telling him to lay off Helen. Didn’t he 
know the power Foster had? Abruptly, 
he laughed; the Kid had guts, standing 
up to him, and he needed men with 
guts. The important thing was that he 
had been scared when he talked back to 
him. As long as he was scared, it was 
all right. “Relax, Kid,” he said. “You 
know what the doctor told me. No ex- 
ertion, not for six months yet; now 
send Helen over.” 

“Yes, Mr. Foster,” Ernie said. 

Foster hung up. Anyway, Helen’s 
virtues were too inconsistent to risk it. 
Fie was always sure of the virtues — and 
health — of his women; he got medical 
reports. 

He sat down on the creaking bed and 
regarded the faded spread. He won- 
dered if Ernie could really like him if 
he was that scared of him; Foster liked 
the Kid. Hell, it didn’t matter; even if 
people didn’t like him, he could make 
them act as if they did. Foster frowned, 
and groped for something in his mind; 
there was something there, something 
that said it wasn’t quite the same. 

1_.TELEN CAME in at six. She was 

A wearing a yellow sweater combi- 
nation and a short full skirt, filling both 
well. Her brown hair needed smoothing 
up, and sweat gleamed faintly but not 
unattractively on the youthful lines of 
her face; the marks around her eyes 
and mouth made her look sensual. 
Without speaking, she walked across 



VOTING MACHINE 



49 



the room and dropped into the easy 
chair with an audible sigh. 

“Hi, Doll,” Foster said from where 
he stood at the window. “Beat?” 

“Man,” she whispered, “I’ve got 
an edge on as sharp as a knife.” 

He was prepared. He walked over 
and offered her a pack of cigarets. 
They had been drenched in a non-habit- 
forming synthetic drug; he didn’t know 
whether she knew it or not. 

She looked up, selected one, and 
leaned back with it in her mouth. Fos- 
ter brought out his lighter, sparking it 
alight. He put his hand on her shoulder 
and applied the fire to the cigaret. His 
hand moved down. 

Helen jumped to her feet. “For 
God’s sake, none of that, Carl. I’ve 
been on my feet all day; I’m tired, 
understand, tired.!” 

“Sure, Doll, sure,” he said smoothly. 
He had too many big fights to worry 
about petty grudges, he told himself. 
But he wondered if she would be that 
tired with Ernie; he’d have to see into 
that. 

Helen sat back down. “Well, if we 
don’t play that game, what do we do 
until the election results start coming 
in?” 

“Wait,” he said. 

The television set cast its blue light 
on the room, and the images wavered 
under electronic water, darted to the 
left, then the right, and finally steadied. 

“Old set,” Foster complained. It was 
ridiculous anyway; everybody getting 
the results the same time as the party. 
The voting-machines made results pub- 
lic property; there was no chance even 
to shift votes from a strong district to 
a weak one. 

He looked at Helen sitting in the 
chair; the odd sleepy look in her eyes 
toid him all he would have to do now 
was suggest the bed, and she would be 
in it. She had no inhibitions now. Some- 
how that was enough — knowing he 
could have her if he wanted her. 



The brilliantly-colored three dimen- 
sion station identification came on, 
and quickly changed back to the som- 
ber black-and-white image of the an- 
nouncer and the black-board behind 
him. 

“As you all know,” the announcer 
explained condescendingly, “this is the 
first year we have employed the new 
psychological voting-machine in the 
United States. I certainly hope none of 
our viewers had their votes disqual- 
ified.” He chuckled feebly. “Because of 
this new method of voting, and even 
tabulating votes, we don’t know exactly 
how long it will take to get the final re- 
sults; but we will stay on the air until 
victory for one party seems assured 
and get the conceding of victory 
speeches if possible. 

“For those of you who haven’t read 
the details in papers, this is exactly how 
the votes will be tabulated this year: 
actually, no votes will be disqualified 
on grounds of incompetence, because 
such votes will not be accepted in the 
first place. 

“Some people have suggested this 
constitutes a rule of the intellectuals. 
Nothing could be further from the 
truth; virtually all intellectuals, and 
those with genius-ratings, show strong 
neurotic tendencies, so they might as 
well not bother to vote at all. Now 
some might say that this deprives them 
of their constitutional-rights; hut the 
constitution denies voting-rights to the 
feeble-minded, and the Supreme Court 
has determined that any form of men- 
tal instability can be classed as 
feeble-mindedness ...” 



THOSTER stopped listening to the tee- 
vee announcer. He knew the rest 
about how the voting machines would 
count the votes, then pass them on to 
the Master Calculator V-49 in Wash- 
ington, and how the machines could 
break ties all along the way by casting 
a vote for the candidate with the most 
stable voters. Scare-politics at a time 
of a rising insanity rate — Foster was 



50 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



at once alert. The announcer was star- 
ing at a piece of paper in his hands. 

“Yes, the final results,” the announc- 
er repeated. “Those machines are 
faster than we thought. And here are 
the results — ” He lifted his hand, cue- 
ing on a blast of canned music. He 
opened his mouth and stared at the 
paper again. 

Static tore the picture and sound to 
pieces at that moment, and Foster 
heard the drone of a large truck from 
the street below. His legs were cramped 
with tension as he moved towards the 
set; it had been so many years since he 
had seen static on teevee, he didn’t 
know what to do. In desperation, he 
slapped the side of the ancient set with 
the palm of his hand. The screen flared 
up to an intense brightness, then faded 
to absolute black. 

His head was hammering as he 
turned to Helen and saw she couldn’t 
offer him any suggestions. Then he saw 
the phone. 

If was long moments after he had 
dialed the unlisted number, before he 
heard the click from the other end. He 
almost didn’t have to ask the question 
then; there were no sounds of excite- 
ment from the other end. But he asked, 
hoping he was mistaken. “Who won, 
Ernie?” 

Through the hammering in his head, 



he was only half aware of Ernie’s voice. 
“Do I ever joke?” Foster demanded. 

Ernie was saying something else. “I 
raped her three hours ago!” Foster 
shouted, half-wishing it were true now. 
“I’m warning you, Kid, get with it: 
who won?” 

Ernie told him. Foster felt for a 
cigar numbly. “You — you don’t mean 
President? Yeah, uh, yeah.” He hung 
up, staring at the blackened television 
set, waiting for it to sarcastically ask 
for the results. 

Instead, it was Flelen. “Who won, 
Ernie?” she asked dreamily, disinter- 
estingly. “I mean, Carl.” 

Everything had been taken away 
from him, but he could still see an 
empty humor in it. “Master Calculator 
V-49.” he said to her finally. 

It was kind of funny; everyone must 
be a little crazy. The machines had to 
have things perfect, neat and clean. 
He should like that; he liked things 
clean. But he wouldn’t have another 
chance to make them that way himself. 
V-49 didn’t make mistakes and Carl 
Foster did. Funny, he kept thinking, 
and couldn’t stop thinking. Now there 
was a political machine that could beat 
his own. 

Funny, and he wasn’t laughing; he 
never did when the joke was on him. 

~k 



THE RECKONING Herds How You Rated The 

August issue 

The one author this time who received cheers but no sneers from you dread 
judges was Winston K. Marks. Despite the dissent from some, however, Ellanby 
has a clear title to first place. Here's how you placed them: 



1 . 


POLAR PUNCH (Ellanby) 


2.90 


2. 


REBELLION INDICATED (Henderson) 


3.54 


3. 


EARTHFALL (Nelson) 


3,80 


4. 


FIVE SCOTCH STORY (Cox, Jr.) 


4.30 


5. 


THE WATCHERS (Banks) 


4.90 


6. 


TRIO (Marks) 


5.40 


7. 


THE SEEKER OF TITAN (/an Riper ) 


6.00 


8. 


T. D. P. ( Spencer ) 


6.60 



You’ve heard of at least two “oldest professions”, but 
here is a third which antedates the others. 





illustrated by Kelley Freas 



SPECIAL 

ARTICLE 

L. Sprague de Camp 

r OLDEST profession is not 

what you might think. It is 

A magic. 

Now, just what is magic? Is magic a 
kind of science, or vice versa? Is the 
magician the poor man’s scientist, or 
the scientist a grown-up magician? Do 
savages make scientific discoveries? 
Does relief in magic imply mental in- 
feriority? Why, in this scientific age, 
isn’t everybody scientific? 

The question of the origin of science 
is basic to any large t'iew of the cause 
and cure of civilization; but considera- 
tion of the origin of science takes us 
back to magic. The two hardly began 
to be distinct before 1500, and their 
separation is not yet complete. 

The origin of science already has a 
considerable literature. There are 
stories of how Ug, back in the Pleisto- 
cene, discovered fire, the bow, domes- 



51 




52 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



tication of animals, and monogamy all 
in one lifetime. Scientists and pseudo- 
scientists argue whether the Mayas 
could have thought up their civiliza- 
tion themselves, or whether they got it 
from Egypt or Atlantis. We’ve all 
heard of the medieval scientist who 
was persecuted as a magician by the 
Church. There are stories about how 
in the future, after science has blown 
civilization off the map, a handful of 
our savage descendants will pick up 
the thread of discovery and recom- 
mence the process. 

Ug left no memoirs, so we have to 
infer his behavior from ancheological 
relics and the actions of modern 
primitives. 

Here is a difficulty: scientific social 
anthropology began less than a century 
ago with Bastian and Ratzel. Only 
since then have primitives been under 
the kind of expert and sympathetic 
observation that is required to shed 
light on our problems. A century is not 
very long in the evolution of a society. 
So the existing literature on primitive 
societies is not a long-term history of 
any tribe. It is, rather, a static cross- 
section of the condition of savage so- 
cieties in the late 19th and early 20th 
centuries. 

Generalizations about primitives are 
very risky. Tribes and individuals vary 
widely. A primitive may be bright 'or 
stupid, cheerful or dour, sober or dis- 
solute, industrious or lazy, skeptical or 
credulous. 

It seems safe to say, however, that 
one of the most basic and ubiquitous 
changes in cultural evolution is the 
specialization of professions and social 
classes. The first class to be differenti- 
ated is that of magicians. The Aus- 
tralian blacks and the more primitive 
of the Eskimos have magicians, but no 
other professionals. “Magician” is per- 
haps a narrow term for such people; 
the professional man may serve in ad- 
dition as the tribal priest, physician, 
poet, historian, and scientist. 

Who are the primitives? When we 



look over the societies into which hu- 
manity has articulated itself, we find 
that they fall into two fairly distinct 
classes. There is a small class of large 
societies with a high development of 
the arts and sciences — usually includ- 
ing writing and metallurgy — and a 
large class of small societies with less 
elaborate development of the arts and 
sciences, lacking either writing, or 
metallurgy, or both. There are also 
borderline cases like the Peruvian In- 
dians, who lacked writing but had a 
well-developed architecture, statecraft, 
and economics. 

Let us take the small, technological- 
ly simple, non-writing societies of to- 
day as “primitive”. Most of their 
people are distinguished by narrow- 
ness of outlook, parochialism, conven- 
tionality, and conservatism. By “nar- 
rowness” is meant simply that primi- 
tives in general do not concern 
themselves much with things of long 
ago, or far away, or in the remote fu- 
ture. Their parochialism is the quality 
that causes such bitter hostility be- 
tween soldiers and the “dirty foreign- 
ers” among whom they are quartered. 
Their conventionality is the same thing 
as that of Queen Victoria; their con- 
servatism is that of Confucius and 
the D.A.R. 

Primitive conservatism is, however, 
relative only. Primitives can effect sud- 
den and drastic changes in their own 
tribal life. Examples are the adoption 
of the horse by the Plains Indians, and 
their consequent abandonment of agri- 
culture for hunting; and the abolition 
in 1819 by Queens Kaahumanu and 
Keopuolani of the native Hawaiian 
religion. 

Seen thus, primitives do not look so 
different from most civilized men. Per- 
haps the nearest thing to the social 
atmosphere of a primitive society avail- 
able to most of us is that of a small 
village, of say a thousand inhabitants, 
not in a rough and changeable frontier 
community, but in a long-settled region 
far from cities — as in Vermont or 



THE ELDER PROFESSION 



S3 



South Carolina. Here everybody knows 
and minds everybody else’s business. 
Details of conduct are minutely reg- 
ulated by public opinion. People pride 
themselves on doing things the way 
grandfather did them. 

This is not to condemn such a way 
of life, which has its advantages. But 
such an environment is not congenial 
for a person of restless, original, or 
iconoclastic temperament. Such a per- 
son in an American village usually 
emigrates to a city; but in a primitive 
society there is no city to go to. So an 
individualist must either adapt him- 
self, or live at outs with his tribe, and 
probably be expelled or killed eventu- 
ally. Or, if he has sufficient ability, he 
can dominate them by specializing, 
which for practical purposes means be- 
coming a magician. 

A MAGICIAN usually enters upon 
his profession after an initiation 
more rugged than those of college fra- 
ternities, and often after a long ap- 
prenticeship as well. Unless he belongs 
to one of the rudest tribes, he prob- 
ably has to join a secret society. This 
may be a political organization like the 
West African Egbo society, of which 
the magician is a club official like the 
treasurer. It may be a priesthood hav- 
ing specialized jobs such as exorcist, 
like the Whare Kura of New Zealand. 
It may be a magicians’ trade-union 
like the North African Sirri. 

The magician’s stock-in-trade in- 
cludes doctrines, methods, and material 
properties. The doctrines consist of a 
cosmogony and mythology of gods, 
spirits, little people, monsters, and 
other supernatural beings, and stories 
of creation, catastrophes such as del- 
uges, adventure, and romance; rules 
for imposition of tabus and interpreta- 
tion of omens; and a system of getting 
desired ends by propitiating gods, co- 
ercing or interrogating spirits, and 
manipulating impersonal supernatural 
forces or fluids. 

The methods are religio-magical 



rites and formulas for helping the 
magician and his friends, clients, and 
fellow-club-members, harming their 
foes, and defending them against su- 
pernatural attack. They include cura- 
tive medicine, because sickness is 
generally attributed to spirits or 
witches. 

“Witches” is an ambiguous term. 
Among magicians there are some bad 
characters, or illegal and irregular op- 
erators, corresponding to the similar 
fringe among civilized professions. 
These are called “witches” or some 
synonymous term. 

, In the mythological doctrines, on 
the other hand, there appear evil su- 
pernatural beings somewhere between 
human beings and evil spirits, also 
called “witches”. Sometimes the latter 
are quite inhuman — like the witches 
in the Iroquois myths who spend their 
time in the curious occupation of mag- 
ically turning passersby to skeletons. 
Others show some resemblance to the 
real “witches”. The mythical witches 
are commonly credited with power of 
flight, lycanthropy, vampirism, and 
cannibalism. Confusion between the 
real and the mythical witches, and an 
exaggerated interest in witchcraft, will 
sometimes combine to produce, that 
frantic terror of witchcraft, and sadistic 
eagerness to torture and kill suspected 
witches, that featured life in ancient 
Babylonia, Reformation Europe, and 
nineteenth-century India and Africa. 

The properties are substances to be 
used in magical operations, such as 
herbs, minerals, and parts of animals 
and people; or objects to which super- 
natural power has been imparted, such 
as fetishes, amulets, wands, and magic 
weapons. 

Nearly all primitives use a little mag- 
ic — for that matter so do most civilized 
folk, even if it is only knocking on 
wood. 

Tribal magic varies. The Tanala of 
Madagascar had an intense interest in 
magic, and were constantly engaged in 
magical operations against those whom 



54 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



they disliked, with the help of the local 
ombiasy or professional magicians. The 
truculent and uninhibited Comanche 
Indians nearly all tried to acquire su- 
pernatural power, though it was con- 
sidered unworthy of a warrior to at- 
tack another Comanche by magic. 
When they became too old to fight, 
many Comanches gave up their pow- 
ers. Others continued to increase them, 
and contended in magic with other old 
men in a spirit of amateur sportsman- 
ship. Alternatively, some Polynesian 
tribes are said to have little interest in 
occult matters. 

YN DESCRIBING the geography of 

magic, we must again be very cau- 
tious. Before the 16th century the 
cultural map of the world was more 
stable than it has been since. Beginning 
around 1500 an enormous overseas ex- 
pansion of the European peoples 
caused the extermination of many 
primitive tribes, the herding of others 
into reservations, and the breaking 
down of primitive cultures — a process 
not yet complete but proceeding apace. 

In the year 1500 the supernatural 
map of the world looked somewhat as 
follows: In the Eastern Hemisphere 
there was a Main Civilized Belt that 
included Europe, North Africa, south- 
ern Asia, China, and Japan. In the 
Western Hemisphere there were two 
more-or-less civilized areas, in Mexico 
and along the west coast of South 
America. Elsewhere the world was oc- 
cupied by hundreds of primitive so- 
cieties. 

The primitive societies fell into two 
major and several minor groups. One 
major group comprised Africa south of 
the Sahara, and Madagascar. We might 
call this “Grigriland”, grigri being a 
West African word for fetish. Super- 
naturalism in Grigriland showed the 
following characteristics: high devel- 
opment of worship of ancestral spirits, 
specialization in the supernatural pro- 
fessions, virulent witch-mania, and 
high development of the art of making 



fetishes — that is, objects which effect 
magical results by means of an at- 
tached or imprisoned spirit. 

The other large area comprised 
North Asia, and the Americas outside 
the Middle American and Andean 
civilizations. We might call it Shama- 
nia, a shaman being a Siberian (Tun- 
gus) magician. Its characteristics in- 
clude comparative lack of magical 
specialization, high development of 
necromantic mediumship, considerable 
religious mysticism, frequent use of the 
drum in • magical operations, frequent 
association of magicianship with sexual 
abnormality, and strong belief in 
controllable, impersonal, supernatural 
forces or fluids — called mana by Pa- 
cific Islanders and “animal magnetism” 
by Mesmer and his followers. These 
distinctions are not absolute; we can 
find plenty of fetishes in the Americas, 
and spiritualistic mediums in Africa. 

The remaining primitive areas were 
smaller regions; enclaves in the Main 
Civilized Belt (as in Southeast Asia), 
Australia, and islands in the Pacific 
and Indian Oceans, all with their own 
magical characteristics. We might men- 
tion the very primitive Australians, who 
cast spells by pointing a bone at the 
victim while he sleeps; and the re- 
markable Dukduk Society of New 
Britain, whose leaders terrified the 
tribes with horrid tales of spooks, but 
who were themselves materialistic 
atheists, regarding all supernaturalism 
as a fraud useful for keeping the 
masses in order. 

AN EXAMPLE of an elaborate 
magical operation that illustrates 
several characteristics of both primi- 
tive and civilized magic, in the late 
19th century a Batanga of West Africa 
told the missionary R. H. Nassau how 
his tribal magician used to prepare a 
war-fetish. A house was built several 
hundred yards from the village, to 
which the magician retired for two 
days to prepare his materials and con- 
sult the spirits. Then the doctor as- 




THE ELDER PROFESSION 



55 



sembled the warriors at this hut. He 
sent one to get a red amomum pod 
from the forest, and another to fetch a 
special pronged spear. 

Then the doctor, taking one com- 
panion, went far into the forest till he 
found an unyongo-muaele tree. He 
chewed the amomum seeds and spat 
them against the tree, saying “Pha-a-a! 
The gun shots! Let them not touch 
me!” He climbed the tree and rubbed 
off pieces of bark, which were caught 
by his assistant in a basket. The proc- 
ess was repeated with a kota tree. 

When the doctor returned to his 
house, the men fetched a large iron 
pot. That night the magician stripped 
naked and took two men to a new 
grave, which he opened. He cut off the 
corpse’s head, saying in a hoarse 
growl: “Corpse! Do not let anyone 
hear what I say! And do not injure me 
for doing this to you ! ” He brought the 
head back to his house on the point of 
the special spear. 

There he twisted off a cock’s head 
and caught the blood on a large fresh 
leaf. Some of the blood was allowed to 
drip into the pot, into which were put 
the corpse’s head, the spear, bullets for 
the magician’s gun, and water. The wa- 
ter was boiled, and the doctor dipped 
a bush-cat skin into the pot and 
sprinkled the warriors with it, saying: 
“All of you, this month, do not go near 
your wives!” 

The warriors spent a month practic- 
ing war songs and dances. Then the 
magiqian mixed the blood that had 
been collected on the leaf with pow- 
dered red-wood, tied up the mixture 
with the corpse’s head in a flying- 
squirrel skin, and hung the bundle up 
in his house. Next day the men gath- 
ered, and tore a fowl and some plan- 
tains apart with their fingers. The 
pieces were put in a pot, which the doc- 
tor cooked and all ate. Then the doctor 
opened his bundle, and with kimbwa- 
mbenje bark smeared the mess on the 
chests of the warriors, saying: “Let no 
bullet come here!” 



He then led them in procession 
through the town, calling on the towns- 
people to shoot him to prove his invul- 
nerability. The warriors shouted 
“Budu! Hah! Hair!”, which did not 
mean anything, but was “only a yell”. 
At an appropriate point a confederate 
fired a blank charge from a gun at the 
doctor. Everybody danced, and the 
magician annointed the remaining 
townspeople from his bundle. The war- 
riors marched off to war; the doctor 
stayed safely behind to watch the 
bundle. 

KTOTE THESE features of this cere- 

^ mony : 

(1) Withdrawal and return. A prep- 
aratory period of solitude is necessary 
before any major magical operation. It 
was, for instance, required by the 
medieval grimoires of magical text- 
books. 

(2) Rare ingredients. The doctor 
gets the bark of rare trees. In some 
spells the ingredients are scarcer yet, 
such as the skull of a parricide. They 
remind one of the chain Gleipnir of 
Norse myth, forged by dwarves from 
the footfall of cats, the breath of fish- 
es, the beards of women, and other un- 
common things. 

(3) . Bluff. The magician brusquely 
orders the corpse, the trees, and the 
universe generally to help him, as if 
they were all subservient human be- 
ings. In the legend of Canute and the 
tide, the courtiers took a similar view 
of the responsiveness of inanimate 
nature to human wishes. People still 
talk to their dice or shout encourage- 
ment to the horse on which they have 
bet. 

(4) Special speech. The doctor’s 
growl in addressing the corpse is par- 
alleled by the squeaky tones of 
shamans at their seances, and the use 
of special topes and stilted and archaic 
language in magic generally. 

(5) Shock technique. The corpse’s 
head is an example of magical props 
used to frighten or disgust, on the 



56 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



sound principle that the client’s sug- 
gestibility is increased by arousing his 
emotions, no matter how. Similarly the 
grimoires called for such repellant ob- 
jects as a bat drowned in blood. 

(6) Special costume. The wearing of 
an ordinary business suit or G-string, 
as the case may be, seems inappropriate 
for the practice of high magic. Hence 
such operations generally call either 
for nudity (as in this case) or for 
special costume. The latter ranges 
from feathers, shells, and other primi- 
tive foofaraw to the turban and robe of 
modern Western occultists. Nudity also 
runs through magic. Pliny recommend- 
ed a naked virgin for a tumor-removing 
spell. Cagliostro is said to have deliv- 
ered occult sermons naked (he must 
have been a sight, with his globular 
figure) to audiences of naked female 
clients. In Western magic nudity has 
if anything greater significance than 
in most societies, because the strict 
nudity tabu of Western Society (de- 
rived from the Syriac civilization via 
Judaism and Christianity) gives cere- 
monial nakedness a Minsky appeal 
that it might not have in, say, Japan. 

(7) Sexual tabu. The tribesmen 
must be continent for a month. Sexual 
restrictions, often associated with sex- 
ual abnormalities, are practically con- 
gruent with magic. The grimoires 
and Yoga books unanimously agree 
that the first thing to be given up in 
the pursuit of the higher wisdom is sex. 
Nearly every great historical wizard 
and occultist from Alexander of Abo- 
nouteichos to the late G. W. Ballard 
either was himself sexually peculiar, or 
imposed sexual rules on his followers, 
or both. Nostradamus was one of the 
few happy exceptions. Herodotos notes 
the “Enarees or woman-like men” 
among the Scythians, who practiced 
divination with strips of linden bark. 
Mme. Blavatsky devoted thousands of 
words in her books to railing against 
sex; her disciple Charles Leadbeater 
was in constant hot water with the law 
over his sexual practices. 



(8) Gibberish. In addition to for- 
eign and archaic words with which to 
impress clients and spirits, the diligent 
sorcerer uses made-up vocables like 
our Batanga friend’s “Budu! Hah!”, or 
the following noises from the grimoire 
called the “Key of Solomon”: “Amor, 
Amator, Amides, Ideodaniach, Parnor, 
Plaior ...” The magician no doubt rea- 
sons that since neither demons nor 
suckers can understand these words, 
both groups will assume that the words 
mean something dreadful, and will be 
properly cowed. 

(9) Legerdemain. The “shooting” of 
the Batanga doctor is of a piece with 
the miraculogenous devices that Heron 
of Alexandri invented for the Hellen- 
istic-Egyptian priests, and the self- 
playing guitars of modern mediums. 
The magician is not necessarily a hypo- 
crite, but he likes a few reliable tricks 
to fall back on in case the spirits prove 
unresponsive. 

(10) Excuses. The doctor prudently 
imposed on his men- a sexual tabu that 
would probably be broken. If the army 
was defeated, he could always at- 
tribute the reverse to that cause. The 
occult fraternity is careful to make 
magic difficult, to keep down competi- 
tion and to provide excuses for fail- 
ures. The magician has to practice un- 
attractive austerities; spells are made 
difficult to memorize; rare ingredients 
are required, like Pliny’s ghost-re- 
pellant that incorporated the hair of a 
hyena caught in the dark of the moon. 
The magician claims vast powers, but 
he also peoples the world with hostile 
demons, ghosts, and witches, who can 
be blamed for failure. Similarly the 
creator of Superman made his hero so 
mighty that human villains were the 
merest pushovers, and the cartoonist 
was forced to invent super-villains of 
transcendent power to enliven his strip. 

I could quote many accounts point- 
ing similar parallels between primitive 
and civilized magic. The seance of an 
Eskimo angeqoq differs from that of a 
Philadelphia medium only in details. 



THE ELDER PROFESSION 



57 



Their only fundamental differences 
are those implied by the invention of 
writing, and the fact that modern civ- 
ilized magic borrows terminology from 
the sciences, and talks of “vibrations” 
and “magnetic currents”. 

TI77E HAVE no real “history” of 
” primitive magic, for obvious rea- 
sons. What information we have im- 
plies that the primitives from whom we 
are descended had at one stage in their 
history a magical system similar to 
those of the most primitive peoples of 
today. The Neanderthalers, who were 
not even of our species, buried their 
dead with tools and weapons. This in- 
dicates that they had the afterlife con- 
cept, and gave the corpse implements 
so that the ghost could use the ghosts 
of the implements in the spirit world. 

The Cro-Magnons not only prac- 
ticed burial, but also assisted their 
hunting by an elaborate system of 
sympathetic magic in which handsome 
pictures of game animals were painted 
on the walls of deep dark caves. A 
bison pictured in the cavern of Niaux 
had spears sticking into it, in accord- 
ance with the well-established magical 
principle that effects resemble their 
causes. Hence to stick a real spear into 
a real bison, you first draw a spear 
sticking into a pictured bison; to cause 
rain you spinkle water with an incanta- 
tion. 

Among the most primitive peoples 
of today, such as the Australians and 
the African bushmen, we find the main 
divisions of civilized magic well devel- 
oped: the two kinds of magical opera- 
tion, divination and thaumaturgy 
(wonder-working) ; and the two meth- 
ods of operating, sorcery (control of 
spirits), and sympathetic magic (ma- 
nipulation of impersonal supernatural 
forces). 

As nearly as we can reconstruct the 
development of magic by comparing 
modern primitives and the histories of 
civilizations, it runs something like 
this: First (as in Australia) the only 



professional class is that of the ma- 
gicians, who are also the tribal sages. 
Such government as there is is exer- 
cised by a council of all the old men. 
The tribe is divided into age-groups, 
with rites of initiation on graduating 
from one age-group to the next. In 
time the tribal magicians and their 
friends begin to restrict membership in 
the oldest age-group, which thus be- 
comes an exclusive occult-political fra- 
ternity that rules the tribe, as in Mel- 
anesia. 

Further specialization separates po- 
litical from supernatural functions, and 
we get a chief, who should be a man of 
action who administers, and the ma- 
gician, an intellectual who advises the 
chief and is often the power behind the 
throne. Then the functions of magician 
begin to split up. There exist official 
magicians, unofficial but legal- ma- 
gicians (whom we may call wizards) 
and illegal magicians (witches). This 
is the state of affairs in Bantu Africa. 

Not all the inhabitants of the primi- 
tive spirit-world are of equal puissance. 
The primitive sorcerer treats them as 
he would men: the minor spirits can 
be bossed, but the most powerful ones 
must be coaxed, flattered, or bribed. 
Spirits of this latter class come to be 
called “gods”, and the art of dealing 
with them “religion”. A God (capital- 
ized) who differs qualitatively as well 
as quantitatively from other spirits is 
a sophisticated civilized concept. 

In a primitive environment, super- 
naturalism may be the only outlet for 
intellectuality. Hence the professions 
of priest and magician attract those 
who in a civilization would become sci- 
entists, philosophers, and idea-men 
generally. These men speculate on such 
large topics as the origin of the uni- 
verse, the nature of life, and the 
cause of disease. Maori philosophers 
preached a four-element theory of mat- 
ter virtually identical to that of Em- 
pedokles of Agrigentum; the Oglala 
Sioux speculated about the divine sym- 
bolism of the circle in a manner worthy 



58 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



of Plato at his most Platonic. The the- 
ories thus evolved are usually wrong 
and rarely right; in primitive medicine 
like quinine, buried in a vast body of 
useless or harmful practices. 

npHE PRACTICE of religion is tak- 
en over more and more by the of- 
ficial supernaturalists, who are then 
called “priests” — though they may re- 
tain magical functions, such as ex- 
orcism, almost indefinitely. This is the 
situation in ancient Egypt and Baby- 
lonia, and in modern Tibet and Japan. 
When the priesthoods become highly 
organized, with centralized hierarchies 
and uniform doctrines, as in Mazdeism 
and Christianity, they are likely to try 
for a complete monopoly of supernat- 
uralism by suppressing wizards and 
witches and competing religions. No 
such effort has been completely suc- 
cessful. 

Then comes the rise of organized 
secular science. This began in the east- 
ern Mediterranean in the Hellenistic 
Age. The first try proved abortive; but 
a new beginning was made in Western 
Europe in the 16th century, and this 
time it stuck. The result was the sep- 
aration in many countries of church 
and state, and a decline in the prestige 
of all supernaturalism, magical or re- 
ligious. The latest step is for a secular- 
minded government, as in the U.S.S.R., 
to try to suppress all supernaturalism 
whatever. In view of the failure of the 
Christian and Jewish religions to wipe 
out magic, however hard they tried, the 
annihilation of religion and magic by 
science-minded politicians seems re- 
mote. 

This is a much oversimplified ex- 
planation. There probably have been 
other lines in religio-magical evolu- 
tion. The one given here, though, is at 
least possible. 

During the earlier stages of human 
development, magic has genuine social 
utility. It supplies the cohesive and dis- 
ciplinary social forces which in more 
advanced societies are furnished by 



national anthems, schools, police, laws, 
and courts. Only occasionally do a ma- 
gician’s mistaken ideas threaten tribal 
survival, as when the Uwet of West 
Africa virtually exterminated them- 
selves by poison ordeals, and the Balen- 
gi of the same region did likewise by 
executions for witchcraft. 



T^/fAGICOLOGY, as a science on the 
borders of social anthropology, 
psychology, comparative religion, and 
historical scientism, did not get proper- 
ly started before Darwin. There were 
magicological studies before that time, 
but largely vitiated, except as sources 
of raw data, by their assumptions. Some 
of these were that mankind had started 
with a monotheistic Adam, and that 
polytheism and magic were the result 
of degeneration from that state of doc- 
trinal purity. The mythologist Andrew 
Lang advanced a slightly-Darwinized 
form of this theory down into the pres- 
ent century, but Lang was an incurable 
romantic. Monotheists naturally tend 
to assume that monotheism is a “high- 
er” form of religion than polytheism. 
But something is to be said for poly- 
theism too: polytheists have seldom 
waged holy wars, or burned heretics. 

With the coming of Darwinism, 
early anthropologists such as Tylor and 
Morgan fitted the growth of magic and 
religion into neat linear evolutionary 
schemes such as that presented herein: 
a gross oversimplification, but useful 
if not taken too seriously. Later stu- 
dents modified the scheme to include 
the equally valid concepts of diffusion, 
convergence, and degeneration. 

Almost anyone would agree that the 
consecration of the Batanga fetish was 
a magical act, but to construct a satis- 
factory definition of “magic” is not 
easy. E. B. Tylor and A. Lehmann con- 
sidered an essential feature of magic to 
be its false or illusory character. Such 
a definition gets us in trouble, when 
we try to fit in the many mistakes and 
wild-goose chases of authentic science, 
and the fact that even a magician’s the- 



THE ELDER PROFESSION 



59 



ories are seldom completely wrong. 
Bacteria are not utterly different from 
the shaman’s disease-demons. The as- 
trologers were right in supposing that 
planets influenced the earth; it was 
only in the nature of the influences 
(heat, light, gravity) that they were 
mistaken. 

J. G. Frazer tried to restrict “magic” 
to what we have called “sympathetic 
magic”, that is, excluding sorcery and 
spiritism. He opined that a pseudo- 
scientific sympathetic magic came first, 
but that when men found that it often 
did not work, they invented spirits who 
could be expected to behave capricious- 
ly. But as the extinct Tasmanians (the 
most primitive race to survive to mod- 
ern times), had a well-developed spir- 
itism, and as there are indications of 
belief in the soul among our paleolithic 
ancestors, Frazer’s pre-spiritistic stage 
of culture remains purely hypothetical. 
The generality of magicians make lit- 
tle distinction between spiritistic and 
non-spiritistic magic. Therefore this 
definition will hardly do either. 

Others have defined magic as in- 
dividualistic or illegal supernaturalism, 
as contrasted with communal or legal 
religion. But again we have trouble 
with official magic like that of the 
Batanga doctor, and suppressed reli- 
gions like early Christianity. 

The most satisfactory definition ap- 
pears to be that magic is the effort to 
attain desired ends by treating super- 
natural concepts in accordance with 
the methods of the mundane arts and 
sciences (e.g. training a dog, building 
a house, or catching a burglar) : by 
coercing, manipulating, or destroying, 
but not by worshipping. 

T HEN WHERE does science come 
in? 

First we must distinguish between 
pure and applied science, or to use sim- 
pler terms between science and inven- 
tion. Today they are closely associated, 
so that while the garret genius still 
flourishes, more and more inventions 



are made by scientists and engineers in 
the pay of corporations. 

However, the farther back we go the 
more distinct they become. Science be- 
comes more and more a matter for 
philosophers and priests, and inven- 
tions are increasingly produced by 
anonymous common men. Hence we 
have a lot of information on Hellenic 
and medieval scientists, but we do not 
even know the names of the authors of 
such vital inventions as the clock and 
the rudder, though they lived within 
the last thousand years. Archimedes, 
a great Hellenistic scientist who was 
also an inventor, apologized for his 
inventions as beneath the dignity of a 
philosopher. 

This split between science and in- 
vention was probably the main reason 
why the Age of Science did not start in 
300 B. C. The Hellenistic scientists 
went as far as they could with their un- 
aided eyes and hands. Then, lacking 
telescopes, microscopes, and stop- 
watches, and not being inclined to in- 
vent them themselves, they got stuck. 

There has been a battle on the 
fringes of anthropology during the last 
30 years on the question of diffusion 
versus independent invention. A school 
of extreme diffusion'ists (led by the 
British anatomist G. Elliot Smith), 
have tried to derive all the basic tech- 
nics of civilization,^ including those of 
the Mayas and Incas, from one or a 
few centers in the Old World. I cal) 
them “extreme diffusionists” because 
it is generally admitted that a vast 
amount of diffusion has occurred. No- 
body claims that all the people who 
use matches and guns today invented 
them independently. 

Smith himself derived all the inven- 
tions from Egypt, though now Iraq 
seems to be winning the. race to be rec- 
ognized as the home of the oldest civ- 
ilization. Smith is vague as to what 
caused the Egyptians to burst into 
such an inventive frenzy as to discover 
not only their own technics but every- 
body else’s too. 



60 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



In its most acute form, extreme dif- 
fusionism results in occult theories 
about Lost Atlantis and visitors from 
Venus. Such theories show a curious 
prejudice against the idea that inven- 
tiveness is a widespread human at- 
tribute. This prejudice has more in 
common with culture-hero myths about 
Osiris, and other demigods, who taught 
men to practice agriculture and gov- 
ern themselves, than it has with sci- 
ence. Even if all the other civilizations 
were derived from Egypt, the rise of 
the Egyptians from savagery still has 
to be accounted for. 

Much is made by extreme diffusion- 
ists of the static nature of primitive so- 
ciety and of the known cases of primi- 
tives losing some of the arts they had, 
as the Easter Islanders lost the art of 
boat-building because the island to 
which they had paddled had no trees. 
Lord Raglan argues that savages can- 
not invent because there are no schol- 
ars and scientists among them — 
though as we have seen scholars and 
scientists are not required for inven- 
tions. He puts the ultra-diffusionist 
case tartly: “We are often told that the 
Bongabonga have discovered the art of 
smelting iron, or that the Waggawagga 
have invented an ingenious fish-trap, 
but nobody claims to have seen them 
doing it.” 

The matter with this statement is 
that we do hot expect primitives to 
make inventions very often, and primi- 
tives have not been under observation 
by anthropologists very long, and, fi- 
nally, it is not wholly true. The ghost- 
dance religion, launched -by the Paiute 
Indian Wovoka in 1889, was an inven- 
tion of sorts. About 1900 a Gilbert Is- 
lander living in the Marquesas Islands 
invented a detachable outrigger to keep 
people from stealing his canoe. King 
Njoya of Foumbam, Kamerun, invent- 
ed a system of writing about the same 
time; he may have gotten the general 
idea of writing from foreigners, but he 
did not adopt a foreign alphabet. He 
contrived a system that was ideo- 



graphic, like Chinese. The Mayan 
calendar is almost certainly independ- 
ent of Old World calendry, being 
based on a year of eighteen 20-day 
months instead of twelve 30-day 
months. 

Hence it seems that primitives do 
make inventions, though rarely and 
under handicaps. Hence the Mayas 
could have evolved their own culture, 
and indications are that they did. 

However, while any inventive per- 
son may make an invention of a prac- 
tical sort, the pure sciences among 
early and primitive peoples are largely 
a sacerdotal matter. In early Rome 
and Egypt, for instance, calendty was 
a priestly magical secret, because in 
that way the public had to come around 
to the priests each year to learn when 
to begin plowing and when to hold 
celebrations. 

JT IS EVIDENT that these priest- 

scientists did not get very far in sci- 
ence beyond simple measuring and 
timekeeping, and that their science was 
thoroughly magical in its methods of 
thought. What are these magical meth- 
ods of thought? 

To begin, magic reasons by analogy. 
It assumes that if a relation holds 
good in one category of facts, it will 
hold equally good in the next. As the 
astrologers put it, “As above, so be- 
low.” Analogical reasoning leads to 
such magical acts as envoutement — 
pricking, roasting, or otherwise mal- 
treating an image of a person in the 
belief that you thereby injure him. 
Sometimes analogies hold and some- 
times they do not. There really is no 
natural “law of macrocosm and mi- 
crocosm”, on which magicians have 
based such wonderful astrological, al- 
chemical, and pseudo-medial theories. 

Magic confuses an association of 
ideas with a casual connection in the 
objective world. A simple example is 
the astrological association of the plan- 
et Mars with strife. To the Babylonian 
astronomers the red star suggested 



THE ELDER PROFESSION 



61 



blood, which suggested war, which sug- 
gested Nergal the war-god. So the 
planet was named “Nergal” and ac- 
quired an undeserved reputation for 
fomenting discord. 

Magic relies on post hoc reasoning: 
A preceded B, therefore A caused B. 
For instance, a few centuries back 
some sailors had a narrow escape from 
being swamped in a storm. Afterwards 
they tried to figure out what they 
could have done to cause the storm. 
They remembered that they had been 
having a bull-session about their love- 
lives ashore, concluded that this was 
the cause, and swore off bragging 
about their amours. 

Magic generalizes from a single in- 
stance. Thus, shortly after the Yakuts 
saw their first camel, they had a small- 
pox epidemic, and rashly concluded 
that camels cause smallpox. 

Magic is authoritarian, and the 
older the authority the more weight he 
has. When an ordinary writer is dis- 
honest, he puts his own name on oth- 
ers’ ideas. When an occult writer is 
dishonest, his dishonesty more often 
takes the form of publishing his own 
ideas but claiming that he copied them 
from a manuscript written by Hermes 
Trismegistus ten thousand years ago. 

T~\0 THESE reasoning processes in- 
dicate, as is sometimes said, that 
savages are persons of inferior cerebral 
development', or at best are a lot of ir- 
rational and credulous blockheads? 
Not a bit; all of us use just these meth- 
ods of thought all the time in every- 
day life. 

For example, if you eat a strange 
berry in the woods, and get a belly- 
ache, you infer that berries of that 
kind disagree with you. That’s not sci- 
entific: it is post-hoc reasoning and 
generalizing from one case. For a prop- 
er experiment you would have to eat 
scores of berries of various kinds (if 
you survived) and get a hundred oth- 
ers to do likewise. When you want to 
know a recondite fact, you look it up 



in the encyclopedia, though that is ap- 
pealing to an authority who may be 
wrong, and occasionally is. When 
your first washing-machine, after six 
months’ service, begins to emit strange 
grinding noises, you infer that some- 
thing is wrong with it, though that is 
reasoning by the analogy of machines 
of other kinds. 

Evidently these methods of reason- 
ing are not only in universal use, but 
also work fairly well — at least most of 
the time. The trouble arises when men 
try to solve the secrets of nature by 
these processes. To discover natural 
layvs, a method that works most of the 
time is not good enough; we need one 
that works all the time. Otherwise the 
thinker will sooner or later err, and 
without scientific criticism the error 
will beget others until the thinker is 
hopelessly off the track. 

To meet this need, the scientific 
method has been developed. This is a 
formidable discipline which only a 
handful of men, relatively speaking, 
have ever mastered. It calls for gen- 
eralization from a large number of in- 
stances, and every generalization must 
be tested by further observation or ex- 
periment. Authorities are not merely 
quoted, but are weighed and checked, 
and are never considered infallible. 
One scientist’s statement is not final; 
it must be confirmed by independent 
observation of others. 

The logic of science is not mere 
analogy and association, but strict in- 
duction, deduction, and statistical 
methods, whose assumptions are sub- 
ject to challenge at any time. Asser- 
tions must be made in such a form that 
they can be checked. If I say that a: 
Babylonian inscription had been found 
in Kansas, I should give the present 
location thereof so that the reader can 
go see it. If I claim to have discovered 
a snake-oil that turns cornflakes to 
gold, I must give such particulars as 
to enable any intelligent person to per- 
form the experiment. 

[Turn To Page 98] 







62 





Space cafard had a formula: monotony, times boredom, 
times confined space times time! After twelve months 
aspace, one man would crack — and the madness would 
spread like uncontrolled plague. And this expedition 
was on a two-year mission! 




Hovelet of Souls Aspaoe 



by Mack Reynolds 

illustrated by Wilbur Luton 



F IRST OFFICER Johnny Nor- 
sen, his lanky body sprawled 
awkwardly in the acceleration 
chair in the wardroom of the New 
Taos , grunted his disgust. “Listen,” he 
said; “listen to this. One of these an- 
cient books of the Doc’s. It says noth- 
ing is more interesting and broadening 
than travel. Says no one’s education is 
complete without travel.” 

Dick Roland, ship’s navigator, didn’t 
look up from his game of solitaire. He 
said, “Maybe that’s the way it was in 
the old days when they traveled in 
chariots — or whatever it was they used 
in those days. What did they travel in 
back in ancient times?” 

The third occupant of the tiny ward- 
room, chubby Ensign Mart Bakr who 
had vacantly been contemplating the 
overhead stirred in his chair and said 
listlessly, “It’s all according to what 
period your talking about. Back in 
United States days they went overland 
in hot rods — vehicles propelled by in- 



ternal combustion engines. Had simple 
aircraft for longer trips. Or did they 
come later?” 

“Anyway,” Dick Roland insisted, 
“possibly traveling was more interest- 
ing in those days. More broadening, 
like Johnny’s book says.” 

Johnny Norsen threw the book to 
the table emphasizing his disgust. 
“Naw,” he said. “Listen, traveling is 
never anything but monotony. Reach- 
ing your destination might be interest- 
ing, but travel itself— I don’t care what 
the medium is — is just plain boredom.” 

Mart Bakr said, “Sure, and the more 
advanced it gets, the more boring. May- 
be walking has a certain amount of in- 
terest, but as soon as you devise a ve- 
hicle you get through the country 
quicker and see it less. Speed it up 
to the airplane and after a few interest- 
ing seconds of takeoff there’s noth- 
ing at all to do but sit, and the longer 
the trip lasts the worse it gets. And 
take us, now. Space travel. Forty-five 



63 




64 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



men cramped in a little sliver of metal. 
Are we being broadened? Are we com- 
pleting our education? Hell no, we’re 
about to go stark raving mad with 
space cafard.” 

A voice from the door said, “What’s 
this about cafard?” 

Norsen looked up. “Hi, Doc. We 
were just talking about the boredom of 
traveling. I think it compounds itself 
when you don’t know where you’re go- 
ing. When’s the skipper going to break 
down? We’ve been out almost a full 
year, and nobody knows where we are 
or where we’re going— except him.” 
Dick Roland said, “Not even me, the 
ship’s navigator. Trip ought to be over 
by now. Never heard of any crew being 
asked to stay out more than one year. 
Not even on bigger ships than this.” 
“As a matter of fact,” Doctor Thorn- 
don said, “it was at my suggestion that 
the ship’s destination be kept secret.” 
The doctor was a small, easy going, 
roly-poly man, his cheeks still pink 
but his hair thinning and graying. He. 
looked about forty-five — old for space 
service — and was the most popular 
man aboard. 

All eyes were on him in surprise. 
“Well. . .why, Doc?” 

“The Captain will be in shortly. He 
told me, just now, to round you all up; 
he’s going to give us the word on the 
significance of this expedition.” ' 
“About time,” Norsen grumbled. 
“We’ve seen all the film, read- all the 
books six times over, played all the 
games until we can’t stand the sight of 
them.” He paused and grinned at his 
shipmates. “Nor of each other, for that 
matter.” 

“You ain’t just a whistlin’ Terra 
Forever,” Bakr agreed. “I’m sure glad 
this trip is about over; another few 
weeks and we’d all be down with caf- 
ard.” 

^OMMANDER Mike Gurloff en- 
tered the wardroom in time to hear 
the last of the third officer’s words. He 
scowled down at Bakr, then looked 



around at the rest of them. “Keep your 
seats, gentlemen,” he growled. Then to 
the pudgy Mart Bakr, “The trip is 
only half completed, Mr. Bakr.” 

They stared at him in disbelief. 
Johnny Norsen was on his feet, incred- 
ulous. “Half through! Listen, skipper, 
you’re kidding; no ship in the service 
has ever been out for longer than a 
year. It. . . Why, hell, skipper, no 
crew could take it.” 

Mike Gurloff ran a weary hand back 
over his shaven head and sank into an 
acceleration chair himself. “That’s why 
the New Taos was chosen, gentlemen. 
The moral of the story is never to be- 
come the pride of the fleet — the one 
ship that always comes through on a 
tough assignment.” 

“Tough assignment?” Dick Roland 
blurted bitterly. “Suicide assignment is 
more like it.” 

Johnny Norsen, still on his feet, de- 
manded, “What’s this about the Doc, 
here, advising you not to tell us our 
destination?” 

Thorndon said easily, “We knew the 
expedition would take just short of two 
years. I was afraid if it became known 
throughout the crew that they were 
scheduled for that long a period in 
space the predilection to space cafard 
would increase. As it is, most are of the 
opinion that the whole thing has been 
very mysterious, but that we are now 
nearly home; thus far, there have been 
no signs of cafard whatsoever.” 

Mart Bakr stuttered indignantly, 
“Sure, fine. But what’s going to happen 
now, when they do find out?” 

The doctor rubbed the tip of his nose 
and screwed up his cherubic face. 
“We’ll see,” he said. “The danger of 
cafard is always less on the way back; 
every day that passes brings us that 
much the nearer home.” 

Dick Roland, still bitter, said, “Yeah. 
But it’s one thing when it’s three or 
four months; we’re a whole year out.” 
His saying it brought the significance 
of his statement home to the navigator. 
“Where are we?” 



DESPERATE REMEDY 



65 



Commander Mike Gurloff had been 
following the conversation, noting the 
reactions of his officers, in silence. Now 
he said, “Yes, gentlemen, we come to 
the raison d’etre of the whole thing.” 

They became quiet, looked at him. 

He said, “Gentlemen, just before this 
trip came up, for what were we sched- 
uled?” 

Johnny Norsen replied. “The expedi- 
tion against those Deneb rebels.” His 
usually-boyish face hardened. “That 
expedition I would have enjoyed.” 

Mike Gurloff nodded. “We all would 
have. How the religio-political move- 
ment that has swept the Deneb planets 
ever got started in this age is a mys- 
tery; but there it is.” 

Dick Roland slapped a palm on the 
wardroom table. “And there it should 
have been squelched, immediately, be- 
fore it spread any further. Now the 
threat of losing everything the race has 
accomplished in millenia. A return to 
industrial feudalism, wars, race and 
religious hatreds, class divisions, an 
economy of want depressions and un- 
employment. That’s where we belong 
— with the rest of the fleet, suppress- 
ing the Deneb rebellion.” 

Mike Gurloff said, “The rest of the 
fleet isn’t suppressing the Deneb rebels, 
Mr. Roland.” 

Another bombshell. They gaped at 
him. 

“The rest of the fleet is awaiting our 
return.” 

“All right,” Johnny Norsen said fi- 
nally. “Why?” 

Mike Gurloff said, “Because, gen- 
tlemen, on the results of this expedition 
the Solar System High Command will 
determine whether or not to recognize 
the new Denebian government and 
come to peace with the rebels.” 

r Y' , HEY HAD been struck with too 

■ many bombshells to be further 
shocked. They sat numbly, waiting for 
him to explain. 

“Gentlemen,” Gurloff went on, 
“there is only one thing that could 




move our government to such a step, 
recognizing the rebels. Only one thing.” 
“Nothing!” Mart Bakr blurted, 
clenching a chubby fist emphatically. 

“One thing,” Mike Gurloff insisted. 
“The Denebians are human. They are 
colonists from the solar system, whose 
inhabitants in turn all stemmed in an- 
tiquity from Terra. All intelligent life, 
in our galaxy, is originally native to 
Earth; we’ve sent our colonists to a 
thousand other stars which boasted 
planets suitable for man-life. Deneb 
is just one of them — one that went 
sour; one that needs correction before 
the souring spreads.” 

Their expressions tightened, but they 
didn’t interrupt. 

“Gentlemen, there is only one thing 
that must unite all humans, regardless 
of internal difficulties.” 

“Aliens,” Dick Roland said. “Intel- 
ligent alien life!” 

The commander nodded, seriously. 
“In all our history, man has never 
found an intelligent life-form with 
which he could deal peacefully. The 
answer, I suppose, is obvious. Any in- 
telligent life-form will eventually dom- 
inate the universe — that is, if it has no 
opposition. And the opposition can only 
be another intelligent life form.” 

“Like the Kradens,” the Doctor mur- 
mured. 

“Like the Kradens,” Gurloff agreed. 
“We fought them only after decades of 
trying to meet them on a peaceful 
level; but they knew from the begin — - 
ning what we learned only through our 
experience with them. The instinct of 
all life is to perpetuate itself, to in- 
crease itself. The instinct is so funda- 
mental that it is impossible to rise 
above it. Any other intelligent life-form 



66 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



stands in the way of our journey to 
domination of the universe. It is a po- 
tential enemy — and a potential enemy, 
gentlemen, is an enemy in fact.” 

“This is elementary, Skipper,” Nor- 
sen told him; “you realize what we 
want to know.” 

“Very well. Shortly before the Solar 
System fleet was to blast off for Deneb 
to suppress the revolt there, our posts 
on the outer-most inhabitable planets in 
our galactic system, recorded an im- 
mense explosion in deep space. An ex- 
plosion, gentlemen, that could only 
have been set off by an intelligent life- 
form, and one that indicated a knowl- 
edge of neo-nuclear fission.” 

“That eliminates the Kradens,” Doc 
Thorndon pointed out; “their science 
hasn’t progressed that far.” 

“Well, what kind of an explosion? 
You mean right out in inter-galactical 
space?” Norsen queried. “I don’t quite 
get it.” 

Mike Gurloff shook his massive 
head. “We don’t know; we don’t know 
the reason, or anything else. All we 
know is that some intelligent life form 
set off an explosion of fantastic mag- 
nitude. The New Taos is now in the 
vicinity of that explosion’s origin. Upon 
our reports will depend whether or not 
the Solar System will recognize the 
Deneb rebels, so that man can draw 
close his ranks for a battle with' an 
alien foe.” 

It was all out now and they consid- 
ered it. 

Finally Dick Roland said, “You 
haven’t picked up any evidence as 
yet?” 

Gurloff shook his head. “None.” 

“What did they expect us to find?” 

Gurloff shrugged burly shoulders. 
“Don’t know; it’s just a matter of 
cruising around. Looking for wreckage, 
perhaps, or an alien ship. If we don’t 
find anything, we’ll shortly head back.” 
He came to his feet. “Frankly, I think 
it’s a wild goose chase, but it wasn’t up 
to me to decide.” 

There was an indistinct babble from 



the corridor which grew in magnitude 
until it reached an echoing roar. They 
spun and faced the door at the clatter 
of approaching feet. 

A messman, his eyes wide and disbe- 
lieving, scurried up and ripped off a 
fast salute. 

“Well, Spillane?” Gurloff growled. 

“Captain,” the boy shrilled. “Cap- 
tain, we found Corcoran^ sir. Dead. 
Down in compartment eight.” 

“Dead!” Doc Thorndon snapped. 
“Why the man wasn’t even ill. I’d ex- 
amined him less than two hours ago.” 
He came quickly to his feet. 

Spillane collected himself, lowered 
his voice an octave or so. “Sir, he 
wasn’t sick. He was killed, sir. A knife 
sticking in his back. He was murdered, 
Corcoran was.” 




HEY scrambled 
down the compan- 
ionway, unheeding 
of their supposed-' 
dignity Mi',., .rank; 
Commandef' Gurloff 
and lector Thorn- 
don took the lead, 
followed by the 
three ship’s officers 
and with Spillane, 
still sputtering, bringing up the rear. 

“Murder!” Mike Gurloff bit out. 
“Ridiculous! Hasn’t been a case of 
murder in the history of the space serv- 
ice.” 

They hurried their way down to com- 
partment eight which was crowded with 
crew-members staring and milling 
about the crumpled body. 

“Mr. Bakr,” the Commander 
snapped, “clear this compartment of 
personnel. Doctor?” 

The ship’s doctor was already bent 
over the corpse, his fingers deftly prod- 
ding for pulse. He was silent only for a 
few moments, then he looked up at 
them. “He’s gone, all right. By the con- 




DESPERATE REMEDY 



67 



dition of his body, I would say that he’s 
been dead for approximately fifteen 
minutes, not longer.” He indicated the 
knife still hilt-deep in the victim’s back. 
“Cause of death, obviously.” 

For a lengthy moment, even Mike 
Gurloff was speechless. Then he mut- 
tered, “Cafard. Only could have been 
committed by somebody completely 
mad.” 

Doc Thorndon came to his feet, eyed 
his commander thoughtfully. “No, 
Mike, I stake my reputation as a phy- 
sician that there is no cafard on this 
ship — certainly not advanced enough a 
case to call for this.” He indicated the 
corpse. 

Muscles worked in Gurloff’s face. 
“Mr. Roland,” he snapped, “bring me 
an inter-compartmental communication 
mike.” 

The ship’s navigator drew his fas- 
cinated eyes from the deceased, and 
hurried to a small compartment set into 
the ship’s wall to return immediately 
with a microphone. 

“Here you are, sir.” 

Mike Gurloff took the device, 
cleared his throat, and said into the 
mouthpiece, “Now hear this. Signal- 
man CorChran has been found. . .uh, 
slain. Anyone — including the man 6r 
men responsible — knowing anything of 
this affair will immediately report to 
me in compartment eight.” 

He flicked off the switch and tossed 
the mike back to Dick Roland. 

They stood about indecisively for a 
period of fifteen minutes or more, 
ample time for anyone on the ship to 
have made his way to them. 

No one appeared. 

“This is incredible,” Doc Thorndon 
protested. “What could anyone expect 
to achieve by silence?” 

“Doctor,” Mike Gurloff said, “please 
take the measures necessary to pre- 
serve Signalman Corcoran’s body for 
decent burial upon our arrival at New 
Albuquerque.” He turned to the others, 
Norsen, Roland and Bakr. “The rest of 
you gentlemen come with me to my 



quarters and we shall begin arrange- 
ments to have each member of the crew 
subjected to questioning under narco- 
scop.” 

AN HOUR later, the crew 7 members 
began filing into the captain’s 
quarters one by one to be received 
identically by Gurloff and Thorndon. 
The doctor quickly injected each with 
five units of narco-scop, and the com- 
mander waited a full minute for it to 
take effect before asking his questions. 

“Did you murder Signalman Corcor- 
an? Do you know anything which 
might aid in the apprehension of his 
killer?” 

Spillane: “No, sir,” in surprise. 

Woodford: “Who, me? No, sir,” in- 
dignantly. 

Taylor: “No sir, I been in my bunk 
for the past six hours, Captain. I didn’t 
even know nothing about it until En- 
sign Bakr woke me up.” 

Heming: “I’m a cook, sir; I never 
been down in number eight since I been 
on this ship, sir.” 

Rosen: “No, sir, I didn’t,” emphat- 
ically. 

Forty men came and went and with 
slight variations answered the ques- 
tions identically. No, they had not mur- 
dered Corcoran ; no, they knew nothing 
about his death. 

When all had finished, Mike Gur- 
loff looked at the doctor for long mo- 
ments. He said, finally, “Any chance 
that the stuff isn’t working?” 

Doc Thorndon shook his head. 
“Narco-scop is the most efficient truth 
serum of all time. There has never been 
a case in medical history w 7 here a per- 
son under its influence was capable of 
telling an untruth.” 

The skipper motioned with his head 
at the container from which the doctor 
had been filling his hypodermic needle. 
“It could have been tampered with.” 

“No, Mike.” The doctor was emphat- 
ic. “It was sealed; you just saw me 
open it. And, besides, it was locked in 
my medical chest. I’d take my oath 



.68 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 




that it couldn’t have been tampered 
with.” 

Mike Gurloff slumped back into his 
swivel chair and stared at the other. 
Meanwhile, his three officers, finished 
.with their tasks, of rounding up the 
men and ushering them periodically 
into the room, gathered at the doorway. 

Gurloff finally said, “Did I under- 
stand you to say that Corcoran had 
been dead for approximately fifteen 
minutes when we arrived?” 

Doc Thorndon nodded. His kindly 
face was expressing as much disbelief 
as was his commander’s. 

“Then,” Mike Gurloff pointed out 
needlessly, “it would have been impos- 
sible for one of us five to have done it. 
For at least twenty minutes preceding 
the discovery of the body we were all 
together in the wardroom. How sure 
are you of that fifteen minute period?” 

The doctor frowned back at him. 
“Pretty sure, Mike. In fact, I went 
over the body more thoroughly after 
you had left. I am quite certain that 
the death took place approximately fif- 
teen minutes before the time I made 
my first examination. Most certainly 
not more than twenty minutes. 

The skipper banged a beefy fist 
down on his desk. “Mr. Norsen,” he 
snapped, “take three men, armed with 
stun-guns, and make a thorough search 
of the ship!” 

“Yes, sir.” The lanky first officer 
spun about and hurried away. 

“Captain,” Dick Roland protested. 
“There can’t be anybody hiding away 
on this ship; we’ve been in space for 
almost a full year. Where would he 
hide? How would he eat?” 

“Mr. Roland,” the Captain growled 
at him, “have you any alternative sug- 



gestions? We have just seen that it 
couldn’t have been any member of the 
crew, and we know it wasn’t one of our- 
selves. Do you suggest that Corcoran 
committed suicide?” 

The doctor shook his head emphat- 
ically. “Impossible. No one — not even 
an accomplished contortionist — could 
have placed that knife at exactly that 
angle in his own back.” He added 
wryly, “And Corcoran was not double- 
jointed.” 

OMMANDER Mike Gurloff was 
winding up an address to the ship’s 
crew. He had chosen the officer’s w r ard- 
room and was speaking into an inter- 
compartmental communications mike 
which sat on the table before him. Dick 
Roland and Doctor Thorndon were 
present. 

“To sum it up, then: we have been 
sent on one of the most important and 
most difficult scouting expeditions in 
the history of the space-service, and 
thus far we have handled it with suc- 
cess. Never before has the service 
asked of a ship and crew that it spend 
a period of more than twelve Terran 
months in space. This has been asked 
' of the New Taos , and, I repeat, thus far 
we are succeeding. 

“We have reached our destination, 
made our examination, and find noth- 
ing to indicate the presence of alien 
life-forms. We have now begun our re- 
turn and upon arrival at New Albu- 
querque will be able to give the reassur- 
ing word which will free the High Com- 
mand of indecision, and send the fleet 
on its way to the destruction of the 
Deneb Rebels and their fanatical re- 
gime.” 

“Good,” Dick Roland said softly. 

“There is one more matter,” Mike 
Gurloff went on. “When it was first 
decided to send the New Taos upon 
this expedition, it was realized that 
only the most experienced and the most 
balanced of personnel could possibly 
be used. No one ever touched with caf- 
ard, no matter how slightly, could be 




DESPERATE REMEDY 



69 



considered; no man whose health was 
not at the peak. It was for this reason 
that some half of the original crew of 
the New Taos was replaced from other 
elements in the fleet. 

“Of these new men, Signalman Franz 
Corcoran has come to a tragic end, as 
you all know. In spite of our attempts 
to find his brutal murderer, we have as 
yet met with no success. A complete 
search of the ship reveals no stow- 
aways; a questioning of the crew under 
the influence of narco-scop brought 
forth no knowledge of the affair. 

“We have not solved this crime. Put 
I pledge this : we shall solve it and that 
as soon as humanly possible. Lieu- 
tenant Norsen has been placed in 
charge of the investigation. I suggest 
that each of us rack his brain for in- 
formation about Signalman Corcoran 
that might give us a clue to- his mur- 
derer and bring him to justice. 

“That is all.” 

T&AIKE GURLOFF threw the switch 
on the mike and pushed the instru- 
ment away from him. He looked up at 
the ship’s doctor. “What do you think, 
Doc?” 

Doctor Thorndon pursed his lips. 
“You mean about our chances of get- 
ting back? You want it straight?” 

“Don’t pull your punches with me, 
Doc; I’m the skipper, you know.” 

The ship’s doctor rubbed the end of 
his nose with a thoughtful forefinger. 
“They aren’t any too good, Mike. The 
crew is in fine shape right now ; the 
excitement of the past few days has 
swept away any cafard-indications that 
I’d noted. The revelation of the purpose 
of the cruise; the inability to locate any 
signs of aliens; the fact that we’ve 
turned and are heading home; above 
all, the murder and its investigation 
— all have had an invigorating effect.” 
He shrugged slightly before going on. 
“But' a week from now, these diversions 
will be forgotten and we’ll be face to 
face with the realization of almost an- 
other year in space.” 



Dick Roland spoke up bitterly. 
“Yeah, and this time, because of the 
longer trip we had a smaller than usual 
weight-allowance for books and films 
and games. Every time-killing activity 
we have has become so stale with use 
that it’s almost preferable to sit and 
stare. I still think the High Command 
was slipping its clutch when it sent us 
off on a trip of this duration.” 

“Somebody had to go,” Gurloff 
growled. 

Doc Thorndon said wearily, “We’ll 
see, Mike. But there’s never been a case 
of a ship in space for more than a year 
without space-cafard setting in. And 
you know cafard; let one good raving 
case of it break out and it’ll sweep 
through the ship like fire.” He grunted 
in self-deprecation. “And I’d probably 
be right in the middle of it, as raving as 
anybody.” 

Roland shivered. “Let’s talk about 
something else.” 

Mike Gurloff looked at him. “How 
are you making out on that Corcoran 
assignment I gave you, Mr. Roland?” 
The navigator’s face was puzzled. “I 
was going to bring that up, Captain. It 
seems to me that possibly I ought to 
spend some more time on it.” 

Mike Gurloff scowled at his second 
officer. “What do you mean? It was a 
simple enough matter. I wanted you to 
check among the crew, find out who 
Corcoran’s closest friends were, see if 
you can get anything on his back- 
ground. Personally, now that I think 
back, I hardly remember the man. Of 
course, there’s practically no use for a 
signalman on a scouting expedition in 
deep space, and I wasn’t in contact 
with him to any degree.” 

“That’s it,” Dick Roland told him. 
“Nobody seems to know much more 
than that about the man. Captain, he 
had no friends.” 

Doc Thorndon was interested. 
“What do you mean, Dick? How about 
his bunkmates, his messmates?” 

“Sure, he had bunkmates and mess- 
mates but none of them were really 



70 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



friends, of his. You know, they didn’t 
know him back on Terra; didn’t know 
his ifamily — if he had one. Nobody had 
ever .been on leave with him; nobody 
seems to know where he used to live.” 
Mike Gurloff looked at him strange- 
ly, then came to his feet. “Come on, 
Mr. Roland,” he growled. “Let’s take 
another look at the files on Franz Cor- 
coran; we'll see you later, Doc.” 

The doctor yawned and turned to a 
shelf of the ever-present onion skinned, 
paperback novels of the ship’s library 
and selected one he had read no more 
than five or six times. 

HTHE COMMANDER led the way 
down the companionway to his 
nearby combination living quarters and 
office, Dick Roland following along be- 
hind. 

He opened a metal file, built com- 
pactly into the wall, and thumbed 
through an index. “Here we are,” he 
grunted, “folder on Franz Corcoran; 
Signalman Second Class.” 

He drew it forth and turned to sit in 
the swivel chair at his desk. “Most of 
the new crew members, as I recall, 
came from the Pendleton; but one or 
two, including Corcoran, came from 
battlewagons. Seems to me I recall that 
Corcoran was formerly on the Sarpe- 
don.” , 

He opened the folder and his back 
stiffened. 

Mike Gurloff turned and faced his 
second officer. “In checking on Cor- 
coran’s background, Mr. Roland, did 
you come in here and look up his file?” 
“Why, no sir; I wouldn’t- come into 
your office without permission.” 
Gurloff opened the file envelope 
wide for the other’s inspection. “It’s 
empty, not a scrap of paper in it.” 
The navigator was incredulous. 
“But why. What would be the point, 
Captain? Anybody on board could 
sneak in here and get into your files; 
they aren’t locked. But why. For that 
matter, you went through those papers 
shortly after we found Corcoran. There 



wasn’t much of interest, from what you 
said afterwards, but you read through 
them.” 

Gurloff was scowling his own puzzle- 
ment. “Rather hurriedly. But, as you 
say, there didn’t seem to be anything 
of interest in them. I agree with you; I 
can’t think of any reason for their 
theft.” He grunted his disgust. “I guess 
it’s a matter of using Doc’s narco-scop 
again — and I wonder just how much 
good that will do.” 

There was a polite knock at the 
open door and the two officers turned. 
Three of the ship’s non-coms stood 
there awkwardly, truculence in their 
faces. 

Gurloff scowled at them. “Well, 
Brown, Woodford, Levy?” 

Woodford was the spokesman. “Sir, 
we’ve been elected a delegation from 
the crew.” 

“Delegation?” 

“Yes, sir. Sir, the crew is just as up- 
set about this killing as you are. We 
figure that unless the murderer is 
caught maybe someone else’ll get it be- 
fore w'e finish the trip. Maybe the kill- 
er is off his rocker and might try to 
blow up the whole ship.” 

“Get to the point, Woodford,” Gur- 
loff growled. “What do you want?” 
“Sir, the other day we were all given 
narco-scop and questioned, and there 
weren’t any results; none at all.” 

The commander was impatient. “We 
know that.” 

“Yes, but sir, only the men were 
given narco-scop; you four officers and 
Doctor Thorndon weren’t.” 

Mike Gurloff’s face hardened. “Are 
you suggesting. . . ?” 

Chief Gunner Brown spoke up. “Yes, 
sir, we are, sir. If it wasn’t one of the 
men, it has to have been one of the of- 
ficers. It’s too important. Captain to let 
go by; all our lives are in danger.” 
Dick Roland said, “Men, it couldn’t 
have been one of us; we were all five in 
conference at the time of Corcoran’s 
death.” 



DESPERATE REMEDY 



71 



“How do we know?” Woodford said 
stubbornly. 

The navigator explained. “Doctor 
Thorndon says that Corcoran’s death 
took place about fifteen minutes be- 
fore his body was discovered; for more 
than twenty minutes before that we all 
five were in the officer’s wardroom.” 
“Listen, sir,” Brown said, “that’s 
what the Doc says. Sure, I’m as fond 
of the Doc as the next guy: he’s pulled 
us out of plenty of spots. But it’s just 
as easy for him to crack as anybody 
else. How do we know that Corcoran 
was dead only fifteen minutes before 
his body was found? Sir, the ship’s 
crew respectfully petitions the Cap- 
tain under Article 16G of Space Service 
Articles, to treat every ship’s officer 
with narco-scop, and question them on 
the death of Signalman Corcoran.” 
There was a wry chuckle behind 
them and Doc Thorndon wedged his 
way into the small office.. 

“They’re right, you know, Mike.” 
he said. “It’s unfair to the crew not to 
take the stuff ourselves.” 




HE delegation from 
the crew, grim faced, 
watched in the tiny 
ship’s hospital as 
Doc Thorndon 
loaded his hypoder- 
mic and one by one, 
injected the Captain 
and his three offi- 
cers. 

“Commander Gur- 
loff, did you kill Franz Corcoran, or do 
you have any information which would 
lead to the apprehension of the killer?” 
“Absolutely not.” 

“Lieutenant Norsen. . . ?” 

“No.” 

“Lieutenant Roland. . .?” 

“No, to both questions.” 

“Ensign Bakr...?” 

The chubby third officer shook his 
head emphatically. “Not me.” 



“Now you, Doc,” Woodford said, 
his face worried. 

The ship’s doctor handed the hypo- 
dermic needle to his captain and bared 
his arm. “You want to do this, Mike?” 

Mike Gurloff made the injection and 
stood back for a moment for the narco- 
scop to take effect. Then, “Doctor 
Thorndon did you kill Franz Corcoran 
or do you have any information which 
would lead to the apprehension of the 
killer?” 

“No,” the doctor said readily. “No, 
I did not; and no, I have not.” 

Chief Gunner Brown’s sigh came 
from deep within him. “Then that’s 
that,” he breathed. 

“Return to your posts, men,” Gur- 
loff growled, again the commander. 

“Yes, sir.” The three crew members 
turned and left. 

Mike Gurloff looked at his officers. 
“You too, gentlemen. This, of course, 
changes nothing; we already knew that 
it was impossible for one of us to be the 
culprit.” 

“Just a minute,” Mart Bakr said. 
“I’ve got something, sir.” 

All eyes went to him. 

He held up a small object, a spindle- 
like device that would have weighed no 
more than two or three ounces. 

“What is it?” Johnny Norsen asked 
him. “Where’d you get it?” 

Mike Gurloff’s eyes narrowed. 
“Where did you get it, Mr. Bakr? It 
looks like one of those experimental, 
ultra-miniature neo-fission bombs.” 

“Yes, sir. I think that’s what it is.” 
The third officer made no attempt to 
conceal his excitement. “Sir, I found 
it hidden in the mattress in Corcoran’s 
bunk.” 

“In his mattress!” Roland blurted. 
“Lord, whoever did him in couldn’t 
have been planning to do it with a 
thing like that. Why, it’d blow up this 
ship and half of this part of space.” 

“Just a moment, let me think.” Mike 
Gurloff’s eyes went flat. He said slow- 
ly, “Yes, there is somebody that’d pull 




72 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 




a stunt like that — a Denebian spy.” 
“And kill himself at the same time?” 
Norsen protested. 

Commander Mike Gurloff took him 
in, nodded his head affirmatively. 
“Those Rebels are fanatical, Mr. Nor- 
sen. They’re as bad or worse as the 
old Nazis or Stalinists back in primi- 
tive times.” 

T T E CAME to his feet, began pacing 
A up and down the ship’s hospital 
to the extent the tiny room allowed. 
“How about this? The Denebians learn 
about the explosion in space and smug- 
gle one of their crackpots aboard. He 
has orders to blow up the New Taos. 
Okay, he loses his guts and doesn’j: do 
it but somehow Franz Corcoran finds 
out about it; so he kills Corcoran.” 
“Why would the Denebians want to 
blow up the New Taos rather than any 
other ship in the fleet?” Mart Bakr 
said. 

“That’s obvious,” his ‘ commander 
growled. “If the New Taos explodes 
out here, rather than returning, the 
Solar System High Command will 
think it an act of hostile aliens and 
make peace with the Deneb rebels.” 
“How did this spy of yours get 
around the narco-scop?” Doc Thorndon 
asked quietly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Listen, I just thought of some- 
thing,” Dick Roland broke in. “Possi- 



bly Franz Corcoran was tailing this 
spy; possibly Corcoran was a member 
of the Solar System Bureau of Investi- 
gation. An S.S.B.I man.” 

“Could be,” Norsen said. “Anyway, 
if you’re right, skipper, we have a spy 
aboard. A spy that was sent to blow 
up the ship but has- temporarily, at 
least — lost his guts.” 

Mart Baker whistled through his 
teeth. “Temporarily is right. If the reb 
gets just a touch of cafard it’ll prob- 
ably depress him to the point where 
he’ll go ahead and end it all. And us 
with him.” 

They stood about silently for a time, 
thinking it over. 

Gurloff growled finally, “We have 
no way of telling who this Denebian 
might be.” 

“Well, at least he’s not one of our 
old crew,” Roland said. “We’ve been 
together for years; we know each man 
like we know the members of our own 
families. That narrows it down to the 
new men.” 

“Wrong,” Gurloff bit out. “Seeming- 
ly nobody is immune to the religio- 
political madness that has sprung out 
of Deneb; they’re acquiring converts 
all over the inhabited systems. I make 
no attempt to explain it, but the fana- 
ticism is spreading everywhere.” His 
eyes went over them. “I’ve known all 
of you gentlemen for more than five 
years, but I would take no bets that 
one of you hasn’t succumbed.” 

Doc Thorndon nodded. “The skipper 
is right. The thing is like a virus. Unbe- 
lievable. Any one of us might have be- 
come a convert.” 

Gurloff turned to his first ’ officer. 
“Mr. Norsen, I want you to go through 
this ship with a fine toothed comb. I 
want every explosive aboard jettisoned. 
Empty the tractorpedos; flush over- 
board every spacerifle shell.” 

'How about handweapons, sir?” 
Norsen asked. 

“Overboard with them — any weapon 
we have is capable of melting a hole 
in our hull.” He paused. “And, Mr, 



DESPERATE REMEDY 



73 



Bakr, give instructions to the crew that 
all watches are to be stood in duplicate. 
No man is to be alone on the bridge, 
in the engineroom, or even in the gal- 
ley.” 

“But, sir — we don’t have the man- 
power for a step like that.” 

"Lengthen the watch hours, Mr. 
Bakr, and make more manpower avail- 
able. Signalmen ancT gunners are worth- 
less to us now; put them to work 
standing watch on bridge or in the en- 
gineroom. Switch the messmen over. 
We can make our own beds, serve our- 
selves.” 

Norsen and Bakr saluted and were 
off. 

“I guess I’ll have to address the 
crew on this,” Gurloff growled. “I’m 
beginning to feel like a politician with 
all my talking.” 

Doc Thorndon pursed his lips. 
"Good idea, though, Mike; makes them 
feel like they’re part of the team.” He 
got up to leave. “Well, I guess I won’t 
be worrying about cafard for a week 
or so. This’ll stir up excitement enough 
to last them for awhile.” 

JT WAS A month later that Lieuten- 

ant Johnny Norsen, sprawled in his 
usual ungainly manner in the ward- 
room and ignoring in boredom the three 
dimensional film being thrown in a 
wardroom corner — a film he had seen 
a hundred times over — blinked his pro- 
test as someone flicked on the lights. 

“Hey, I’m watching a show,” he pro- 
tested, then recognized the other. “Oh, 
it’s you, skipper.” 

Mike Gurloff snapped a switch to 
kill the projector. “You weren’t look- 
ing at the thing anyway.” 

“I guess I wasn’t at that, skipper. 
I’ve just been wondering what there 
was about some of these films when 
we first got them aboard that was so 
funny, or heartrending, or interest- 
ing, or whatever we thought they were 
at the time.” 

He indicated the one he had just 
been viewing. “If I ever see that 



comedian in person, when we get back 
to Terra, I’ll strangle him with my 
own hands.” 

Mike Gurloff managed to get off a 
sour grin. “You’ll have to stand in 
line, Mr. Norsen; every member of 
the crew feels the same way.” He 
sank into an acceleration chair oppo- 
site his- first officer. “Anything new 
in the investigation?” 

Johnny Norsen shook his head. “Men 
are beginning to grumble about this 
watch in duplicate thing.” 

“They are, eh? Let them grumble.” 
"They’ve split themselves up into 
'two factions; that’s beginning to cause 
friction.” 

"Two factions?” 

“Ummm. Divided almost equally, 
about twenty men to the faction. The 
original New Taos crew men say that 
they knew each other so well, that 
they’re positive the killer couldn’t be 
one of them; consequently, it must be 
one of the new men. The fellows from 
the Pendleton and the other ships claim 
that before they got assigned to this 
job they went through a security check 
so strict that any Denebian, or any 
crackpot, would have been weeded out. 
They figure it must be a crew member 
or officer of the original ship’s com- 
plement.” 

Mike Gurloff growled, “Both fac- 
tions just loaded with good sense, eh? 
What do they do about it?” 

“They just watch each other, so far. 
I think they’ve elected committees and 
each faction member reports daily to 
his committee. I don’t know what they 
expect to accomplish.” Norsen yawned 
deeply. “Think we should put an end 
to it, skipper?” 

The ship’s commander had lowered 
himself 1 wearily into a chair. “Put an 
end to it? No! Gives them something 
to be worked up about, excited about. 
I don’t care if they break out into open 
fist fights — there’s nothing else left 
on board for them to fight with — just 
so it doesn’t hinder the efficient opera- 
tion of the ship.” He ended bitterly, 



74 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



“As a matter of fact, another murder 
just about now would be just what the 
doctor ordered.” 

Johnny Norsen sat upright in his 
chair. “What!” 

The captain waved a hand negative- 
ly, impatiently. “Exaggerating, .of 
course, but the theory is correct.” He 
gestured at the film projector. “How’d 
you like the show you were running 
off?” 

The first officer grunted his dis- 
gust. “I put it on and then forgot to 
look at it.” 

“Exactly. There isn’t a form of en- 
tertainment left on the New Taos with 
which we’re all not bored stiff. No en- 
tertainment, that is, except Murderer, 
Murderer, Who’ll Catch the Murderer; 
it’s the only thing that’s keeping us all 
from cafard.” 

r 'jPHE OTHER squirmed uncomfort- 
ably at the mention of the dread 
illness. “Do you think we’ll make it 
skipper? Do you think we’ll get back 
to the Solar System before cafard 
hits?” 

Mike Gurloff shook his head. “No, 
frankly; I didn’t when we were sent 
off on this wild goose chase, and I don’t 
now.” 

“We’ve got to get back,” Norsen 
blurted. “We’ve got to report this align 
threat a false alarm so the fleet can 
take on the Denebians. We’ve given 
them too much time to spread, too 
much time to prepare, as it is.” 

“I’m no doctor,” Mike Gurloff said 
sourly, “but I have a working knowl- 
edge of space cafard; I’ve seen enough 
of it. It’s nothing more than monotony 
and boredom and claustrophobia all 
blended. Combined, they add up to 
stark raving madness of a type that 
tends to spread — wildfire fashion. No 
man cooped up in a spaceship, averag- 
ing only a few cubic feet of space he 
can call his own, can see another driven 
mad by boredom and confining walls 
without blowing his own gaskets. If I 
was a mathematician the formula would 



go something like this: monotony 

times boredom times confined space 
times time equals cafard. Time has al- 
ways been the crucial factor and I have 
never heard of an authority who 
claimed a man, any man, no matter 
how balanced, could spend more than 
twelve months in space without con- 
tracting cafard.” 

There was a knock at the door and 
the two officers looked up. Four crew- 
men stood there, sullenness predomi- 
nating over respect in their facial ex- 
pressions. 

“Another committee,” Johnny Nor- 
sen sighed. 

“What is it, men?” Commander Gur- 
loff growled. “What is it this time? 
Your committee seems to have grown 
— four of you now instead of three.” 

Woodford said, an element of defi- 
ance in his voice, “This is really two 
committees, sir. Levy and me, we repre- 
sent the original crew members of the 
New Taos. Brown and Harkness repre- 
sent the newcomers.” 

“Well, what’s the reason for this 
delegation? I suppose the New Taos 
crewmen want the more recent addi- 
tions to our happy family jettisoned 
and vice versa.” 

Chief Gunner Brown flushed resent- 
fully. “No, sir; we’re in agreement on 
this particular matter.” 

“Well, what is it man? What is it? 
I don’t have forever.” 

Johnny Norsen had to chuckle in- 
wardly at that. Maybe the skipper 
didn’t have quite forever, but he al- 
most did. 

Woodford said, “Sir, a month ago 
Mr. Norsen came through and gath- 
ered up all the explosives aboard and 
flushed them out into space.” He 
squared his shoulders. “Not that we 
didn’t think it was a good idea, under 
the circumstances, sir.” 

“Oh, fine,” Gurloff growled. 

Woodford went on' doggedly. “He 
flushed out all the spacerifle shells, the 
tractorpedo warheads, even the small 
arms. Everything some damn Denebian 



DESPERATE REMEDY 



*75 



spy might be able to use to blow up 
the ship.” 

“Get to the point, confound it, 
Woodford!” 

“Sir, he didn’t flush overboard your 
sidearms; you four ship’s officers still 
got your guns.” 

R/|IKE GURLOFF was on his feet, 
his heavy face flushed with an- 
ger. “Do you men mean to say you 
have the mutinous gall to approach me 
and demand that I — the commanding 
officer of this vessel — surrender my 
sidearms to you?” 

Brown said doggedly. “There’s been 
no proof, sir, that the Denebian spy 
ain’t one of the officers. There’s been 
no proof. But even supposin’ it ain’t, 
it don’t mean that the spy couldn’t 
conk one of the officers over the head 
and get his gun away from him. Sir, 
the ship’s crew unanimously petitions 
the Captain, under Article 16G of 
Space Service Articles, to jettison the 
four sidearms in the possession of the 
ship’s officers." 

The other three nodded their heads 
definitely. 

“It’s unanimous, sir,” Woodford re- 
peated. 

They stood silently for a full five 
minutes facing each other, glaring. 

Suddenly, Mike Gurloff’s hands 
dropped to his belt. “Mr. Norsen,” he 
said harshly, “here is my sidearm. 
With your own and those of Mr. Bakr 
and Mr. Roland, flush it overboard.” 

“Yes, sir,” Johnny Norsen said 
wearily. 

There was commotion in the hall, 
an elbowing and a thrusting aside of 
the committeemen. 

“Probably another delegation,” 
Johnny Norsen grunted. 

It was Messman Spillane, as usual, 
breathless. 

“Captain Gurloff!” he shrilled. “It’s 
the Doc. . . Doc Thorndon, he’s been 
killed too.” 

They stood, stunned. 

Johnny Norsen said, “Here’s your 



second killing, Skipper — the one you 
said was just what the doctor ordered.” 

4 - 

O C THORNDON 
was sprawled on the 
floor of the tiny 
ship’s hospital. The 
room was about the 
size of a bedroom 
of a Pullman of the 
Twentieth Century. 
It had two bunks, a 
tiny folding table, a 
medicine chest built 
into the titanium alloy wall, a lava- 
tory. The hospital also doubled as the 
doctor’s quarters; if he had two pa- 
tients at once he had to leave his place 
and bunk with the third officer — but 
that was seldom. 

Ensign Mart Bakr, his plump face 
screwed up as though in effort to pre- 
vent tears from flowing, was standing 
guard at the door. When he saw the 
ship’s commander approaching he stut- 
tered, “I’ve kept everybody out, sir. I 
didn’t. . . I didn’t know what you might 
want to do in the way of investiga- 
tion.” 

Mike Gurloff brushed his way past 
his third officer and surveyed the room 
quickly. The story was obvious. The 
bottom bunk was rumpled; a pocket- 
book lay on its back on the floor. Doc 
Thorndon’s body was near the medi- 
cine chest, one arm extended as though 
in last effort to reach the drugs it con- 
tained. He had undoubtedly been 
stretched out on his back in the bunk 
reading when something warned him 
of disaster. He tried to get to the medi- 
cine chest — and hadn’t made it. 

Commander Mike Gurloff wasn’t a 
particularly compatible man, but Doc 
Thorndon had been his closest friend 
for half a dozen years on the New 
Taos. His face entirely expressionless, 
he sank to his knees beside the other. 

“Who discovered him?” he asked. 




76 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



“I did/’ Mart Bakr said. “Spillane 
and I were coming along the corridor. 
The door was opened and I glanced 
in; there he was. I rushed Spillane to 
get you.” 

Mike Gurloff scowled and reached 
for the doctor’s pulse. “You didn’t 
check the body...? ...He’s not 
dead!” 

“What!” Bakr blinked. “But. 

“Here dammit, help me get him onto 
the bunk. What’s that on the floor?” 
They struggled to get the roly-poly 
doctor’s form stretched out on his bunk. 

“What’s what on the floor, sir?” 
Bakr puffed. 

“He’s scribbled something on the 
floor with his stylus. Damn it, can you 
see it? I can’t make it out.” 

Dick Roland had entered behind 
them, took in the situation at a glance, 
got down on his hands and knees be- 
side his commander. “It’s the name of 
some drug,” he said. “He’s written out 
the name of some drug. It’s unidote.” 
He looked up at the other two. “What’s 
going on. What’s wrong with Doc?” 

Bakr said, “We found him on the 
floor here; thought he was dead. I 
guess he must’ve written that before he 
passed out.” 

“He’s hardly breathing,” Gurloff 
snapped. “Where is the key for that 
medical chest? He’s been poisoned.”' 

Mart Bakr, perspiration running 
down his chubby face, was fumbling 
through the stricken doctor’s pockets. 
“Here they are.” 

TN MOMENTS they had the chest 
-*■ open and were searching through the 
multitude of drugs. 

“Here it is,” Roland blurted. “Uhi- 
dote. There’s no directions on it. Let’s 
see. No, here it is. Just one capsule 
with water.” 

“All right,” Gurloff barked, “get it 
into him. Bakr, hand me that medical 
guide there.” He began leafing rapid- 
ly through the thin pages while Roland 
lifted the unconscious- doctor’s head un- 
der one arm and forced the pill be- 



tween his lips. Bakr hustled over with 
a water carafe. 

“Not that water,” Roland told him. 
“Go get some from the wardroom; 
maybe the poison, whatever it was, is 
in that carafe.” 

The water was quickly forthcoming 
and the pill washed down through re- 
luctant lips. The water dribbled over 
bunk, patient and first aid administer 
unheeded. 

Gurloff, his eyes on the medical 
guide, growled, “Here it is. Unidote. 
The stuff’s an almost universal anti- 
dote for poisons administered through 
the stomach. If he’s been poisoned, it 
should bring him out of it.” 

Johnny Norsen, a pack of crew mem- 
bers behind him, was at the door now. 
“What’s going on,” he rapped out; 
“what’s the matter with the Doc?” 
Mike Gurloff snapped the book 
closed and faced them, his face granite 
hard. “Doc Thorndon has just been 
poisoned. We don’t know if he’ll come 
through this or not; he’s still alive, and 
we’ve got the antidote into him.” 

The murmur went back through the 
crew members. “It’s the doc; some- 
body’s tried to kill the doc.” 

Johnny Norsen scowled his incre- 
dulity. “But who’d want to kill Doc 
Thorndon? There’s not a man on board 
who doesn’t love old Doc.” 

Mike Gurloff growled viciously, “All 
weapons have been flushed overboard, 
but there is one weapon the spy still 
has at his disposal — and one that can 
destroy the ship without his revealing 
himself. Space cafard. With Doc 
Thorndon dead, cafard would soon hit 
the ship and we’d have a crew of raging 
maniacs.” 

He took in his three officers. “My 
orders regarding watches is duplicate 
will continue in force. In addition, gen- 
tlemen, will be this: no man of this 
ship’s complement will ever be alone 
until completion of the cruise. Each 
man will be assigned a companion from 
whom he shall never be separated. Un- 
der no circumstances shall any crew- 



DESPERATE REMEDY 



77 . 



man or officer ever be out of the sight 
of his companion. As soon as such a 
separation does take place, if it does, 
the companion will immediately report 
to me. 

“Do you understand, gentlemen? 
From this day, no man in this crew is 
ever to be alone. Mr. Norsen, you will 
never be out of the sight of Mr. Rol- 
and, and vice versa. Mr. Bakr, you 
will never be out of sight of Chief 
Gunner Brown; make arrangements 
for him to bunk with you. Divide the 
rest of the crew likewise, each man to 
have a companion.” 

From the corridor someone said soft- 
ly, “It’s a good idea, but how about 
you, Captain?” 

Gurloff’s face hardened but he 
snapped back, “The point is well tak- 
en; as soon as Doc Thorndon has re- 
covered he and I will be a pair, al- 
ways within sight of each other.” 

THE bunk behind him, tire doc- 
^"^tor stirred and they spun to face 
him. He shifted in his bed, shook his 
head weakly. “Unidote,” he mumbled. 
“Been poisoned. Unidote.” 

Mike Gurloff was at his side. 

“Doc,” he said. “Doc, are you all 
right?” 

The doctor’s eyes opened. “Mike,” 
he said weakly. “Poison. Didn’t even 
think about it. Check all water aboard. 
All food; my medicine chest. Throw 
overboard all bottles with red labels.” 
His eyes closed again. 

“What’s the matter?” Dick Roland 
demanded. 

“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter, he’s 
sleeping. I think he’ll be all right.” 
Mike Gurloff got to his feet. “You 
heard his suggestions, gentlemen. 
They’re good. Begin an immediate 
check of all food, water, oxygen sup- 
plies.” 

“Yes, sir,” johnny Norsen spun to 
be off. 

“Just a minute, Mr. Norsen,” Gur- 
loff growled. “Mr. Roland goes with 
you. My order is to be obeyed; from 




this time onward, no man is to be 
alone on this ship. Not even for a mo- 
ment.” 

Johnny Norsen’s angular face was 
sheepish. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Come on 
Dick.” 

They left and Mike Gurloff turned 
to his third officer. “Mr. Bakr, you 
and your companion, Chief Brown, will 
begin assigning the crew members their 
associates. I want you to take particu- 
lar pains in assigning men to a person 
they do not personally like. I do not 
want friends to be linked as compan- 
ions. Each newcomer to the crew of 
the New Taos will be assigned to an 
oldtimer; I want men who will watch 
each other, understand?” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“Very well, and as soon as you have 
completed this measure and impressed 
its significance on the crew, report to 
me here. I have a few other measures 
in mind.” 

The few other measures included 
such items as every member of the 
crew exchanging his clothing and bed- 
ding. Mike Gurloff was taking no 
chances that the spy might be equipped 
with espionage devices concealed in 
buttons or textile materials. Nor did 
any crew member know who was wear- 
ing his former garments. All clothing 
on the ship was gathered, laundered 
and redistributed under the supervision 
of the ship’s officers. 

Nor did Mike Gurloff stop there. 
The personal belongings of every man 
aboard were gathered and jettisoned. 
No secret source of poison or explo- 
sives was to be left aboard. 

There were no complaints at the 
measures. 



n 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



CVERY DAY that passed saw Doc 
Thorndon visited in the hospital 
by every member of the crew — coming 
in pairs, of course, since from that time 
on no man on the New Taos was ever 
alone. But, in spite of all the attention 
that could be showered upon him, his 
recovery seemed slow. He admitted 
that he didn’t know what poison had 
been used on him, nor how it had been 
administered. As best he could remem- 
ber, it was intuition more than any- 
thing else which had brought him sud- 
denly from his bunk, and sent him to 
his medicine chest for antidote. 

It was about a week after the poison- 
ing that Commander Mike Gurloff en- 
tered the ship’s hospital and closed 
the heavy door behind him. 

Doc Thorndon looked up from his 
book. “Hi, Mike,” he said. “You look 
tired; drag up a bunk and lie down.” 

The ship’s commander hoisted him- 
self into the upper bunk, put his hands 
under his head and stared up at the 
overhead above him. 

Doc marked his place in the book 
with a finger and said, “You’ve got 
something on your mind, Mike.” 

Mike Gurloff growled softly. “And 
it’s about time; you see, Thorndon, 
I’ve bees, thinking.” 

It was the first time in the doctor’s 
memory that the other had addressed 
him by his last name alone. He closed 
the book and slipped it beneath his pil- 
low and waited for the other to go on. 

Mike Gurloff said, “I kept on think- 
ing until I figured out who killed Franz 
Corcoran.” 

“Oh. Who?” 

“You did, Thorndon; you’re the only 
man on board vGio could possibly have 
killed him.” 

“Not exactly killed him, Mike. I 
executed him.” 

Mike Gurloff stiffened and began to 
come to one elbow. But then he sank 
back again. 

“How did you find out?” Doc 
Thorndon asked softly. 

“I don’t know. It wasn’t one thing, 



and it didn’t come all at once; it was 
just little things piling up. I couldn’t 
accept it at first, so I kept refusing to 
realize that you alone could be our kill- 
er, our spy. How could you do it, 
Doc?” For the first time, the captain’s 
voice was bitter. 

“It was easy,” Doc Thorndon said, 
still softly. “I’m a physician Mike. It. 
isn’t hard for me to cut out a tumor, to 
amputate a gangrenous limb; nor was 
it hard for me to execute a Denebian 
spy.” 

“What!” 

“Of course, Mike. But I’m interest- 
ed. How did you figure it out? I’d 
rather hoped that nobody would. We 
still have eight months to go; tell me 
what you know, and I’ll tell you the 
rest.” 

“Well, first of all it was you that 
told us Corcoran had been dead for fif- 
teen minutes. None of the rest of us 
had the medical background to check 
on that; it gave you an alibi.” 

“That’s true. Corcoran was dead at 
least a half hour at the time he was 
discovered.” 

jyriKE GURLOFF went on. “Sec- 
1 ond, narco-scop always works. It 
was working when we tried it on the 
crew. As you pointed out, it couldn’t 
have been tampered with, because its 
container was sealed. But when we 
questioned the officers, including your- 
self, a week later, it was no longer- 
sealed and had been tampered with — 
and you’re the only one who could 
have done it. Actually, we were prob- 
ably injected with water, or some such, 
instead of narco-scop.” 

“That’s a good guess,” the doctor 
admitted freely. “I knew it would only 
be a matter of time before someone in- 
sisted that the officers be subjected to 
narco-scop as well, so I substituted 
water. What else, Mike?” 

“When I thought back about it, you 
being poisoned the way you were 
seemed doubtful. Your scribbled note 



DESPERATE REMEDY 



79 




giving the antidote was just too pat to 
be believable.” 



“I had taken a couple of sleeping 
pills,” Thorndon said, a trace of disap- 
pointment in his voice. “I thought I’d 
put it over fairly well. Of course, if 
you hadn’t found the antidote message 
I’d scribbled, I would have come out 
of it in a few hours anyway. I would 
have still claimed to have been poi- 
soned.” 

Mike Gurloff’s voice had deepened 
to a harsh growl now. “All right, Thorn- 
don, so you admit it; now explain why.” 

The ‘doctor rubbed the tip of his 
nose reflectively. “Well,” he said, “it 
was as I said. Franz Corcoran was a 
Denebian spy. I believe I told you that 
I’d examined him a few hours before 
his death. The examination was a 
psychological one rather than physical; 
I was giving him a routine check for 
cafard. Some of my questions must 
have inadvertently stepped on his ideal- 
ogical toes. Before I knew it, I had a 
wild eyed fanatic on my hands, roaring 
his accusations against the Solar Sys- 
tem League and his boasts of what he 
was going to do about it.” 



Mike Gurloff remained silent but his 
facial expression was changing. 

The doctor went on. “You see, Mike, 
that mysterious explosion out in space 
wasn’t such a mystery, after all. Evi- 
dently, the Denebians — in an attempt 
to gain time and to prevent our fleet 
from attacking them — sent a robot ship 
out into intergalactical space with a 
large neo-fission warhead. It went be- 
yond the point ever reached by a 
crewed ship, and then automatically 
exploded. 

“But that was only part of their 
plan. They correctly assumed that a 
Solar System ship would be sent out to 
investigate, and made all efforts to 
smuggle a fanatical spy aboard. The 
spy’s job was to destroy the New Taos 
upon reaching the vicinity of the mys- 
terious explosion-committing suicide 
himself, of course, when he did it. Very 
well. Do you realize what that would 
have meant to our High Command?” 
“Ummm,” Mike Gurloff growled. 
“They’d assume we were lost in a fight 
with hostile aliens, and come to a truce 
with the Denebian rebels.” 

“Quite correct; happily, I stumbled 
upon the spy before he was able to use 
his explosive.” 

Mike Gurloff bit out, “Doc, you had 
no right to take the matter into your 
hands. Assuming that I accept your 
story, your duty was still to report to 
me, to turn Corcoran over to me.” 
“Oh?” Doc Thorndon said easily. 
“And just how were we going to get 
the New Taos back to the Solar Sys- 
tem, Mike? What was going to keep 
the crew from cafard during that year 
period?” 

“What’ d’ya mean?” 

“I mean that the only thing that has 
kept this crew sane is the interest 
and stimulation brought on by this 
mystery. The killing itself; the stolen 
papers on Corcoran from your files; 
the arguments between crew members 
and the various committees they 
formed; my being poisoned; the orders 
to jettison everything a spy could use 



80 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



to destroy the ship; the more recent or- 
ders that every watch be stood in du- 
plicate, that no man ever be left alone. 
All these things, Mike, have kept the 
ship in a continual dither — and has 
kept cafard from taking over.” 

Mike Gurloff snorted his disgust. 
“You’re right, damn it, Doc.” 

“Of course, I’m right,” Doc Thorn- 
don said with satisfaction. “And now 
that I think about .it, I’m glad you 
found out; now, at least, there’ll be 
two of us.” 

The captain didn’t get that. He 
peered down over the edge of the bunk 
at the other, his face scowling. “What 
do you mean by that?” 

The ship’s doctor was bland. “When 
you were assigning everyone on board 
a constant companion, didn’t you team 
yourself and me? We’re the only two 
aboard who know that I destroyed 
Corcoran. We’ll have to keep the mys- 
tery alive, keep things hopping. Good 
grief, Mike, we’ve got another eight 



months more in space. If cafard is to 
be staved off we’ve got to play this 
game to the hilt.” 

Mike Gurloff groaned and lay back 
on the bed again. “For instance, like 
what?” 

There was a shrug in Doc’s voice. 
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a month or 
so from now we’ll bean you over the 
head with a wrench or something, and 
let them find you unconscious some- 
where. Then later you can have all the 
ship’s tools except those continually 
under guard, jettisoned.” 

Doc Thorndon’s voice went thought- 
ful now. “Maybe later on we can start 
a fire. . . ” 

Commander Mike Gurloff growled 
disgustedly. “I should have become a 
salesman like my poor old mother 
wanted. When I entered the Space 
Academy I never figured I’d wind up 
sabotaging my own ship for a period of 
eight months — in order to get it back 
home.” 




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( continued from page 8 ) 



sometimes not. Often a person’s most 
potent biases are unconscious. 

But stories which appeal to our bi- 
ases often strike us with an undue 
feeling of favor. Many people, for ex- 
ample, will admit that some stories 
which they love and re-read often are 
really not very good; they just love 
the stories and don’t care whether their 
favorites are literature or not. (I’m 
very fond of the Captain Future nov- 
els although I know they are medio- 
cre.) y. 

If you could discover what bias is 
touched off by the kind of story which 
is an editor’s favorite, then you could 
sell him pretty consistently. Also, edi- 
tors try to discover group biases among 
their readers, to a certain extent. 

The editor is also a reader; he’s ac- 
cessible to being hit on his biases, and 
if he’s hit hard enough he may not be 
able to resist a given story. If he is a 
gadgeteer. then he may be so delighted 
by the gadgets in a given story that he 
doesn’t notice how far the story is be- 
low his standards, otherwise. He may 
accept the story gleefully; write glow- 
ing prevue blurbs about it; spread the 
title over the cover; present it as one 
of the immortals of science fiction — 
and then wonder why only a few read- 



ers praised it. Thase who liked it, of 
course, had biases like the editor’s; 
the majority may or may not have 
found the gadgets interesting — but 
they certainly noticed that the plot 
was stale, the dialogue juvenile, the 
characters cardboard, the writing awk- 
ward, etc. 

If the editor is all hipped up on any 
particular sociological theories, psycho- 
logical and/or psychotherapeutic fads, 
etc., then the same thing is likely to 
happen in the case of a story contain- 
ing material that caters to these biases. 

Being reasonably human, he also has 
biases against particular things, too. 
On the conscious level, he can warn 
writers that he isn’t interested in sto- 
ries taking place in the Venusian jun- 
gles for example. But how can the 
writer know that the name Algernon 
reminds this editor of liverwurst: 
which reminds him of fresh-slaughtered 
pigs; which reminds him of his moron- 
ic second cousin thrice removed who 
induced him to do something which 
he’s been trying to forget, on various 
levels of consciousness — and therefore 
any story containing a character named 
Algernon leaves him with a feeling of 
slimy disgust and revulsion. Thus, a 
given story which was really right up 



81 



82 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



this editor’s alley on the objective lev- 
el, and one of the best stories of the 
type written in five years, was reject- 
ed flat. 

Now that is an extreme example, but 
sometimes personal biases make it im- 
possible for an editor to accept a sto- 
ry, which is later greeted with shouts 
of joy by another editor. 

TTERE IS where an editor simply 

A falls over his subconscious, accept- 
ing stories which are not “good”, re- 
jecting first-class stories. Where an 
editor is aware of his biases, then one 
test of his editorial worth lies in his 
ability to say, “I don’t like this story, 
but it’s good, and the kind my read- 
ers expect of me,” or “I love this one, 
but my loving it doesn’t make it a 
good story,” and to act accordingly. 

You might think that I have over- 
emphasized this bias aspect of the edi- 
torial problem and you may be right. 
I’ve given this emphasis to it because 
I want to draw your attention to the 
fact that this element exists. From 
what I have seen and heard, it is not 
often taken into consideration. 

Obviously, violent editorial bias is 
not going to account for a great num- 
ber of bad selections by any long in- 
cumbent editor indefinitely; this 
would soon result in a change of skip- 
pers for the particular magazine. But 
this element can account for what 
otherwise seems to be unexplainable 
lapses of judgement and taste. 

So far as an editor’s repeated use of 
stories by writers who happen to be 
his friends goes, this can be considered 
as a marginal case of bias— but as a 
rule it is not undesirable. For every 
story an editor has taken from a friend, 
and which readers or other writers 
thought was not as good as it should 
be under the circumstances, he has 
probably rejected two manuscripts 
which other editors thought better 
than the stories he printed. In some 
instances, the other editors were right, 
and fans started noting, “Hey, Joe 
Doe’s stories in Flabbergasting Fiction 



are much better than the ones he’s 
been writing for McPencil.” But you’ve 
seen the opposite just as often, where 
the fans said, “Joe Doe’s stuff in Elec- 
trijying Episodes is pretty sad; Mc- 
Pencil knew what he was doing when 
he wouldn’t even run them under a 
pen-name.” 

And then, sometimes, a second-rate 
story by Joe Doe was recognized by 
the editor for what it was, but accept- 
ed strictly from hunger for anything 
better. 

What can be done about the bla* 
situation? An editor can have his bi- 
ases pointed out to him; and if it turns 
out that he was completely unaware of 
them, he may be able to operate a lit- 
tle better once he knows what they 
are. I say may because this problem 
touches upon others which lie outside 
of my range of competence; but in 
some cases, a well-documented word to 
the wise can help. For example, I’ve 
just recently been made aware of my 
predilections for hyphenating phrases 
which should not be hyphenated. It’s 
something I’m grappling with and hope 
to get under control, eventually — but 
I’d never noticed it had it not been 
brought to my attention. 

So I’d like to suggest that fans who 
like to do research, and write articles 
upon their findings for fan magazines, 
could have themselves an interesting 
time exploring editorial biases, as evi- 
denced by the published record; and 
they might accomplish something in 
the way of helping an editor improve 
his work. 

YVTHEN IT comes to author-editor 
> ” relationships, we come into a what 
amounts to a special field of diplo- 
macy, and the ways in which an edi- 
tor can hurt himself cannot be enumer- 
ated in the compass of a short edito- 
rial. The successful editor is the one 
who manages to operate so as to tread 
upon the fewest auctorial toes; but no 
editor can hope to avoid giving of- 
fense entirely; he’s going to hurt some 
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SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 

feelings at some times no matter what 
he does. 

Authors, fans, agents, and many 
editors themselves have often discussed 
various editorial practices, and one of 
the 'most controversial has been that 
of how an editor handles stories which 
he would like to use — but not in the 
form submitted — and how he handles 
manuscripts he has accepted. 

In the first instance, there is no 
hard and fast rule as to how drastical- 
ly or often any given manuscript 
should be worked over by an author 
in order to bring it into line with what 
a given editor wants. The complaint 
that, “So-and-so made the author do 
this story over six times,” or “So-and- 
so wanted revisions, and he killed 
the story”, are very common. By the 
law of averages, both complaints un- 
doubtedly have been justified at times; 
by the same law — and particularly in 
the case of an experienced editor who 
knows science fiction and knows what 
he wants — the complaint will not stand 
up under an unbiased before-and-after 
examination. (I have heard, for exam- 
ple, that “The Demolished Man”, was 
originally submitted as a short story. 
Whether or not this is true of the 
Bester novel, this sort of thing has 
happened.) 

But there is no doubt that where 
such complaints may be justified, then 
an editor falls over his own feet in de- 
manding extensive rewrites. And it is 
very doubtful that — except in special 
instances — numerous rewrites will im- 
prove a story as much as the demand- 
ing editor in the case may believe. In 
any event, however, this case leaves 
some measure of choice up to the au- 
thor. Regardless of whether he may 
choose, under the circumstances, for 
the sake of a sale — or an appearance 
in the particular market — to revise his 
story over and over, he still had the 
right to say “No”. 

Where an editor makes alterations 
[Turn To Page 86 J 




84 




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SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 

on his own discretion, and in so doing 
changes not merely words and phrases, 
but violates the basic integrity of a 
story, then there’s sound reason for 
an author’s bitterness. In some cases, 
he may refuse to deal further with the 
editor in question — except in cases of 
financial emergency. This type of ob- 
trusiveness can also bring forth a justi- 
fied complaint from discerning readers 
that too many of the stories in the 
magazine read as if the same person 
had written them. And what defense 
is there if the readers’ opinion shows 
that a given story is poor, and it trans- 
pires that editorial manipulations were 
to blame? 

Obtrusive editing of this nature is 
often mistaken by the offender as 
“creative editing” — an attempt to help 
the author realize more fully what he 
has only achieved in part. Anyone can 
make such an error, with the best 
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times takes an awful lot of will-power 
to lay that blue pencil down. I, too, 
get sudden inspirations as to how the 
story in front of me can be made real- 
ly terrific, if only . . . - 

Here is where true “creative edit- 
ing” comes in. Sometimes an editor 
will see implications in a story that the 
author has not seen; sometimes he 
will see how additions, deletions, etc., 
can make a much better story out of 
it. But the editor should realize that 
his own vision may not be as clear as 
he thinks, and realizing this, consult 
the author first. Was this what you 
meant on page so-and-so? What about 
this — had such-and-such possibilities 
occurred to you? At times, the editor 
will be right, and an author will be 
happy and grateful either to make 
changes himself, or allow the editor to 
work it over as outlined. But anything 
more than cursory alterations should 
not be made without giving the pos- 
sible victim a chance to say “No!”, or 
[Turn To Page 88] 



86 






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SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 

to explain why he didn’t do so-and-so, 
and possibly convince the editor that 
the author knew better after all. 

When I first read Janies Blish’s 
“Testament of Andros”, I felt that it 
needed a slight expansion at the end. 
Jim agreed, and did a few pages over. 
When I started to work on the manu- 
script, I saw a few minor details which 
either puzzled me, or which I suspect- 
ed were not exactly what he meant. 
We talked it over, and found that 
where I was right in one instance — 
he’d overlooked a minor contradiction 
— he was saying exactly what he meant 
in the others; when he explained, I 
saw that he was right. My “improve- 
ments” there, had they been made, 
would have weakened or diluted what 
was right just as it stood. 

Thus, any editor who constantly ob- 
trudes himself into manuscripts he ac- 
cepts is asking for trouble — both need- 
less trouble with his writers, and the 
grief that arises from running poor 
stories, for which the authors are not 
to blame. 

As with the matter of personal bias, 
the most that can be done is to point 
out to the editor what he has been do- 
ing, and hope that such knowledge will 
help him amend his practices. If he 
can’t. . .that will be part of the answer 
if he complains about having an awful 
time getting good stories. 

There’s a slanderous myth to the 
effect that editors are frustrated writ- 
ers, who couldn't write decent (or sale- 
able, or both) stories themselves, and 
who compensate for their own feelings 
of inferiority by lousing up their bet- 
ters. Well, perhaps some such individ- 
uals have held editorial posts at times; 
but a successful magazine, with a con- 
tented audience, isn't likely to come 
from such hands. 

There remains the question of how 
writers themselves fit in to this pic- 
ture of why editors have trouble find- 
ing good stories, but this will have to 
hold for the next issue. RWL 

[ Turn To Page 90 J 



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and there's no doubt that a majority of 
you want to see the letters contest re- 
stored. I’m pleased; the reason I 
dropped it temporarily was because I 
felt you didn’t really care. 

A majority also affirmed that they 
would rather see a few interesting let- 
ters than many of little interest, in- 
cluded sheerly for the sake of having a 
large number of entries, if the choice 
had to be made. I shall adhere to this 
verdict, too. 

This is very definitely and distinctly 
your department, and the measure of 
its success and interest is up to you. At 
times, there have been very few letters 
in a given issue; this was because I did 
not receive any more before my prin- 
ters’ deadline. Not that I only received 
a handful of communications in all — 
there has been a gratifying volume of 
response from you all along — but that 
nearly everyone sent only a coupon, or 
post card, or capsule comment saying 
“fine”, “good”, “not so good”, “ugh”, 
and so on. 

Perhaps I’ve unintentionally given 
you a false impression of what I con- 
sider an “interesting letter, worth pub- 
lishing”. It is true that I find a lot of 
the letters in “Brass Tacks” stimulat- 
ing, and I like to see that type of dis- 
cussion. But I also think “The Reader 
Speaks”, “The Ether Vibrates”, and 
“The Vizigraph” are very enjoyable 
letter departments, too. Ideally, I’d 
like to see all types in SFQ, not want- 
ing “It Says Here” to be an imitation 
of any other editor’s letter department, 
but unique in its own right. In actual 
practice, I’m restricted ' to what you 
write. But, as I’ve said before, please 
write what you feel like writing and 



9Q 




IT SAYS HERE 

don’t worry about this department’s 
“policy”. 

Now it’s your move. RWL. 

• 

DISSENT 
by Murray King 
Dear Mr. Lowndes: 

It isn’t so often that I find myself in dis- 
agreement with the book reviews of Damon 
Knight but his comments on “Cloak of 
Aesir”, left me a trifle disappointed. Per- 
haps it was a ease of enthusiasm making 
him overlook fault, for while I wouldn’t 
contest his judgment about the value of the 
stories as landmarks in science fiction, it 
seems to me that he left a lot unsaid. 

Without detracting from author Camp- 
bell’s merits as an idea man, I think a re- 
view of this volume should have mentioned 
that the Don A. Stuart stories were writ- 
ten with something considerably less than 
smoothness of style, particularly those 
wherein the author tried to paint a some- 
what poetic mood-picture, as in “Twilight”. 

Re-reading “Twilight”, as I did not too 
long ago, I was immediately, impressed with 
two things — the author’s intent and desire 
to write in a sustained, poetic style and 
his inability to do so with any degree of 
consistency. Finely written sentences and 
passages are there, side by side with awk- 
ward, clumsy effects which show nothing 
more than the desire to write beautiful 
prose and underline the failure to achieve it. 

I wonder if Mr. Knight didn’t notice this, 
or whether he considers the writing effec- 
tive, throughout. Since there is no discus- 
sion of style in the review, I suspect that 
his customary attention to such matters was 
distracted by what he found to praise. 

Incidentally, unless I have overlooked 
earlier examples, Mr. Campbell in “The Es- 
cape” was the first science fiction. writer to 
use the type of ending made famous by 
George Orwell in “1984”. There’s no get- 
ting_ away from the fact that, despite his 
stylistic failings, Campbell has made worthy 
contributions to the field, both as author 
and editor. 

— Greenwich, Conn. 

My impression was that Knight’s 
entire reason for commending “Cloak 
of Aesir” was for its historical value in 
tracing science fiction’s development 
and that in this particular case the 
trends were more important than the 
technical execution of any particular 
story. There are times when the over- 
[ Turn Page J 




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SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 

all import of a story triumphs over in- 
cidental crudities. 



PARADOX 
by Nan Warner 

Dear RWL: 

The odd thing about your August issue is 
that there wasn’t a bad story in the issue, 
and yet only one was what I’d call good sci- 
ence fiction. No sense in blaming Crossen 
for this because even though he may be 
one of the chief propagandists in the “take 
the science out of science fiction” campaign, 
he wasn’t a pioneer in practising it. In fact, 
the practice has been going on so long that 
my reaction, when I began to see disserta- 
tions along that line was to mutter “What 
science?” 

My way of judging whether a story real- 
ly belongs in a science fiction magazine is 
to ponder a while, and try to see if the story 
could happen just as well in a mundane set- 
ting, without any basic changes in the gen- 
eral plot and action. 

For example, “The Guthrie Method” by 
Ray Gallun (in your May issue) was very 
definitely science fiction; the problem 
could not be solved on the Earth, and could 
not be solved at our present stage of tech- 
nological development. That is, it couldn’t 
happen today, and probably not tomorrow. 
The exact amount of scientific detail doesn’t 
strike me as so important as does the gen- 
eral feeling. I mean, a lot of science can be 
there by implication and the reader doesn’t 
have to go through all kinds of treatises, 
lectures, diagrams, and so on in order to 
get the impact of science behind the action 
and plot. 

But take the August SFQ. “Polar Punch” 
was amusing and enjoyable to me, but I’m 
willing to bet that the story, in its basic 
essence, could be rewritten and laid in some 
terrestrial past century. “Earthfall” could 
easily be made into the story of adventurers 
coming upon some utopian colony of ex- 
patriates. “Rebellion Indicated” is "a “white 
man s burden story, distorted into other- 
world setting — something of a satire, and 
perhaps science fiction if you consider 
sociology and psychology sciences. But 
somehow I feel the story could have been 
written in its essence by someone who had 
never heard of science fiction, but who was 
well acquainted with history and political 
behavior. “Trio” is distinctly a fable in 
which insects, instead of animals, discourse 
on the follies of man. 

“T. D. P.” and “The Seeker of Titan” 
were both too slight to bother about; nei- 
ther seemed very fresh, though both were 
well done for their length, and didn’t annoy 
me. Same with “Five Scotch Story”. 

Which leaves “The Watchers”— which 

[Turn To Page 94 j 



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had some fascinating projections of pos- 
sibility, which held up a strange and differ- 
ent world for examination, and yet which 
had understandable people in it, behaving 
in a believable way. This and the de Camp 
article and the departments made me feel 
that I’d gotten my money’s worth. 

From what you’ve said in your editorials 
and comments, I get the feeling that these 
stories aren’t exactly your idea of science 
fiction, either. Am I right? 

— New Canaan, Conn. 

I’m not convinced that “Polar 
Punch” could be adapted to another, 
non science fiction setting as easily as 
you think, but I’ll admit that I like the 
type of story you define as science fic- 
tion best. 

@ 

RESTRICTED AREA? 
by Loring Ware 
Dear Mr. Lowndes: 

What kind of prima-donnas do you have 
running the type-setting machines, any- 
way — or is the letter column only for the 
type who get kicks out of seeing their love- 
ly names in print? I’m referring to the 



double-space, typewritten requirement on 
publishable letters. In your August issue 
you mentioned, in regard to the artwork 
awards, that unless you received at least 50 
votes on the question, you would drop the 
contests. 

I could read 50 letters written on brown 
paper with a 7H pencil stub in one after- 
noon. For a quarterly magazine, you’re aw- 
fully worried about 3 extra hours’ work 
for somebody, spread over 3 months. When 
I write to you, I consider it a letter from 
person to person, not a precious manuscript. 
If you see fit to publish it, fine, but I 
haven’t noticed many letters addressed to 
“The Readers Of Your Magazine”. 

And another angle on this 50 letter busi- 
ness. I’ve passed the stage where I thought 
that science fiction magazines must have 
nearly the circulation of Life or the Satur- 
day Evening Post, but — only 50 letters? 
Something’s happened to the people who 
used to like science fiction. After twelve 
years, it’s still got the hold on me it used 
to, but I guess I’m alone, with the excep- 
tion of a handful of B.N.F.’s who seem to 
be carrying the ball completely alone. 

Of course, we’re rapidly being turned 
into a nation of pap-fed illiterates by a 
few thousand near-morons without the 
brains to understand what progressive edu- 
cation is, much less put it into practice, as 
it should be — but my Lord, only 50 letters! 

By the way, Willis Freeman gets my 
vote for the August letter column. 



IT SAYS HERE 



Well, Loring, since the customer is 
always right, then one of us must be 
awfully confused. Perhaps you read a 
different edition of the August SFQ 
than any that I’ve seen. Because, in all 
the copies I’ve looked at, I state the 
following in my paragraph at the top of 
the inside column of page 95: 

“W e’ll restore the original contest 
for letters if a clear majority of votes 
are for it, and if I get a minimum of 
fifty votes on the question.” 

I said i( VOTES” lad — not letters. 
Everyone who wrote in (whether they 
sent a letter, coupon, postal card, or 
hieroglyph-covered brick) DID NOT 
NECESSARILY VOTE ON THE 
LETTERS CONTEST. In fact, only a 
small minority of communications re- 
ceived had shown any interest, either 
way. Up to that time we had not re- 
ceived anything like the minimum 
stated (I wouldn’t have been unyield- 
ing, for example, if 49 had been re- 
ceived) although the total number of 
communications per issue had not fall- 
en off. 

The letter department is for anyone 
— fan, friend, or fiend — who would 
like to make use of it. Unless a letter- 
writer says he does not want his com- 
ments published. I assume that his let- 
ter is available for publication, at my 
discretion. It stands to reason, how- 
ever, that the majority of letters re- 
ceived will be from persons who frank- 
ly enjoy seeing their opinions in print 
who are interested in the editor’s com- 
ments on these opinions, and who hope 
to hear from other science fictionists as 
a result of this publication. When one 
reader writes to disagree with another 
reader, or to add to the discussion 
that makes for more interest in the de- 
partment. And the department depends 
entirely upon the readers; it can be as 
lively as you make it. 

In order to prove to the world that 
I am no prima donna, I am running 
your letter, but in the future, I must 
[ Turn Page] 



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insist that you type letters in both 
upper and lower case — not all caps — if 
you are interested in having them ap- 
pear in this department. Believe me, I 
can, and do read letters written on 
brown paper with a 7H pencil stub, at 
times. But you may not realize, Cor- 
ing, that handling SFQ and Future 
Science Fiction is only a small part of 
my job; this company issues a number 
of western and detective magazines, as 
well as a sports magazine — I handle 
them, too. Thus, in order to devote as 
much time as necessary to essentials, I 
have to draw a line at un-necessary 
work. 

It is not the labor of typing up let- 
ters which were written in hand, but 
the time — I can and do make excep- 
tions now and then when someone who 
does not have a typewriter available 
writes me a short and particularly in- 
teresting letter. My orders (and the 
editor of a magazine is hired to execute 
a policy, not to make it) are that hand- 
written material cannot be sent to the 
printers. They are not prima donnas 
either; they, too, have to maintain 
schedules; they print many magazines 
other than SFQ and Future Science 
Fiction. In order to maintain their 
schedules, they have to draw the line 
at manuscripts which would require 
extra time on the part of the linotypists 
- — who are expected to do their jobs 
within given schedules. 

Finally, while I stated that we re- 
ceive a healthy number of communica- 
tions on each issue, the number of let- 
ters is not anything like it used to be. 
Back in the days when there were only 
two or three science fiction magazines, 
the volume of letters was very high. 
Now, when the type of reader who is 
most likely to write letters follows a 
number of magazines, and likes to 
write to all of them now and then, the 
number of letters to pny one magazine 
obviously cannot be as high as in the 
past. 

[Turn To Page 98] 



96 



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98 



SCIENCE FICTION QUARTERLY 



Take the first issue of Science Fic- 
tion Stories, as an example. That had 
a very satisfactory sale, and many 
science fictionists I know told me they 



thought it was quite good. Yet, it re- 
ceived fewer letters than any other is- 
sue of any science fiction publication I 
have ever handled. 



The Elder Profession 



( continued hom page 61 ) 



This discipline has developed within 
the last four centuries. Does that mean 
that no scientific discoveries were made 
before that? 

No, many were; but would-be sci- 
entists also discovered many things 
that were not so. Plato’s “Timaeus” is 
a mine of errors of this sort. With so 
many guesses, some guessers were 
bound to hit the right answer. Aris- 
tarchos hit on the heliocentric theory, 
and Demokritos hit on evolution. But 
the misses far outnumbered the hits, 
and without the scientific method it 
was difficult— except in simple matters 
like the roundness of the earth — to tell 
who was right. 

Among pre-scientific intellectuals 
like Pliny and Roger Bacon there was 
often a strong feeling that “science” 
was real and “magic” illusory. When 
they tell us what they mean by “sci- 
ence”, however, they include a lot that 
we class as magic. People still try to 
discover scientific facts by pre-scien- 
tific means, and usually end up by 
chasing such snarks as the prophecies 
of Nostradamus or the Lost Ten Tribes 
of Israel. 

npHUS, INVENTION has been with 
us since the Pleistocene and is a 
fairly ubiquitous human phenomenon; 
but until fairly recently, its connection 
with science was slight. Science in the 
sense of speculation about natural laws 
goes back to primitive magic. But such 
“science” accomplished little of def- 
initive worth. Science almost separated 
itself from magic in the Hellenistic 
Age, but failed to do so. Then, begin- 



ning about four centuries ago, science 
became increasingly allied with inven- 
tion and increasingly separated from 
magic. This development was made 
possible by development of the scien- 
tific method and by the fact that in- 
ventors provided scientists with pow- 
erful new tools of research. 

This “science” is quite different 
from that of Plato and Ug, though it 
grew out of the latter. Unfortunately 
it seems destined to be an even more 
esoteric system than the magic, whose 
place it has taken — not because it is 
kept secret, but because its pursuit re- 
quires a degree of intellectuality be- 
yond the abilities or tastes of most hu- 
man beings. 

Much primitive magic has been de- 
stroyed by the expansion of the 
European peoples. Civilized magic con- 
tinues, somewhat withered and apol- 
ogetic. However, there is a lot of life in 
it still, as anybody can see from the 
advertisements of cult meetings, horo- 
scope readings, and other manifesta- 
tions of the higher wisdom. 

While science is triumphant, nearly 
all the human race will continue to use 
analogistic and other pre-scientific 
methods of thought for everyday af- 
fairs. So far they have proved adequate 
for continuation of the species. A meth- 
od that works most of the time, and 
can be used by everybody, is a better 
survival-factor than a method that 
works all the time, but can be used by 
only one man in fifty. Whether this 
will continue to be true in the Atomic 
Age remains to be seen. 






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